


All Those Things I Never Said

by 221blackandwhitestripes



Series: What Always Comes Too Late? [2]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Compliant, Character Death, Depression, Dreams and Nightmares, Episode: s03e14 The Gentle Art of Making Enemies, Episode: s03e15 How the Riddler Got His Name, Heavy Angst, Lee and Ed being Bros, M/M, Metaphors, Prequel, Therapy, Writer is Well Aware of Ed's Mental Health Issues, but not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-02-20 08:15:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 35,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22945906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221blackandwhitestripes/pseuds/221blackandwhitestripes
Summary: On a pier, a very, very long time ago, Edward Nygma stood half alone.(The prequel toSeizing My Guts (He Floats Me With Dread))
Relationships: Edward Nygma & Leslie Thompkins, Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma
Series: What Always Comes Too Late? [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1532993
Comments: 36
Kudos: 80





	1. Monster in His Bed

**Author's Note:**

> Heya, everyone. This fic is basically an explanation of what happened in Seizing My Guts, and I recommend you read the first 8 chapters of that before tackling this.
> 
> This fic was initially going to be chapter nine of that fic, but it... got away from me and is now almost the same length as the original fic. Oops. Anyway, I hoped this explains some things. The next chapter of Seizing My Guts is also written and would be published after this fic. I hope you like it - zebra.

On a pier, a very, very long time ago, Edward Nygma stood half alone. His gun shook in his fist, rattling like a locked doorknob, his breath frosting the air in front of him.

He’d never truly believed it would come to this.

“Ed, I love you. I know you believe that now.” Oswald’s eyes were wet, and Ed knew it wasn't from the rain. He blinked, committing the image to memory. “So you need to listen to me when I tell you; by doing this, it will change you.”

“I’ve killed before, Oswald.” He grit his teeth, remembered Dougherty’s blood staining his hands, how Kristen had _slumped_. One had frayed his brain like old rope, the other had twisted him out until everything was straight, his mind cleared.

He could make that happen again.

“Not like this. This won’t be a crime of passion or self-preservation.” Oswald didn’t understand. This was _necessary_. What Oswald had done was unspeakably cruel. Ed couldn’t imagine a world where he could forgive him. “This will be the cold-blooded murder of someone you _love_.” Oswald’s voice broke on the word as if to him it still held meaning.

“I _don’t_ love you,” Ed growled – felt gravel in his throat. It was an echo – like he had heard the words said by someone else and recorded them to play on this rainy day. He’d never said that before.

Oswald’s hand rose to touch him, perhaps to convince him otherwise. Ed quickly slapped his hand away. He didn’t need it.

“You need me, Edward Nygma.” Oswald’s voice was high and reedy. He was pathetic. A spoiled brat who had a tantrum when he saw someone else playing with his toy. Except Ed wasn’t a toy, and he would _not_ be played with. “Just as I need you. You cannot have one without the other.”

Perhaps it was wrong to murder a child, even if that little boy was Oswald Cobblepot, King of Crime. But punishment must suit the crime.

“You killed Isabella.” There was a vice around Ed's gut that tightened with every breath he took. It spat fire and hissed lava, consuming him – it was all that occupied his mind. 

“The point _is_ -”

“ **THAT _IS_ THE POINT!**” he yelled, gun waving up and down. But Oswald didn't seem to notice, making no attempts to run, or escape. Everything was boiling over, and the vice had never synched this tight. “You can’t talk your way out of this Oswald. I have wanted you,” He breathed deeply, heavily, “–to _suffer_ as I’ve suffered.” Tighter, tighter, ribs cracking under pressure. “You killed her, so _you_ die.”

Ed felt a frisson of horror scrape against his skull as he watched his former friend’s expression of guilt melt away to reveal something cold and stormy. 

“When I met you, you were a nervous, jittery _loser_ ,” Oswald spat. 

_Loser._

“You were _nothing_.” 

_Nothing._

The vice tightened. The gun rattled.

“I created Edward Nygma.” No, he didn’t. “And I am the only one in the world who truly sees you as you are.” No, he wasn’t. “Who you can still become.” 

Oswald seemed desperate, hands shaking, eyes pleading. His face tilted up to Ed as if in prayer. Did he truly believe he wouldn’t pull the trigger?

Oswald sobbed. “You can’t do this.”

How could a man like that have so much _faith?_

Ed’s gaze trailed down to the gun in his hand. _(“You were nothing.”)_ His trigger-finger twitched.

“Ed, are you listening to me?” Oswald seemed to be in a limbo of demanding Ed’s attention and begging for it, and Ed’s head was spinning, spinning, _spinning_ , but everything was staying still, and rain was tapping against his glasses, blurring his vision, slipping down the back of his neck, slickening the pavement of this dock around them, washing away the blood from the last piece of scum who decided to cross a man who wouldn’t be crossed.

Ed breathed in, then out. The vice tightened.

“I’m listening.” Birds’ wings flapped. Rain pelted down. The wind hissed by.

“Say something.” Ed looked up. Oswald was begging, hands clutched, tears in his blackened eyelashes. He looked heartbroken.

_Heartbroken._

Ed swallowed the rainwater and felt his resolve click into place with the click of the gun’s safety.

“I loved her, Oswald.” The vice tight, tight, tightened. “And you killed her.”

He lifted the gun to Oswald’s broken heart and shot him.

_**BANG!** _

Oswald’s last gasp of breath sounded like his name, garbled and warped, and Ed knew deep in his gut that it was a sound he would never forget. His hand shook as he grabbed Oswald’s tie and pulled him in. The moment lasted a lifetime, neither of them breathing as Ed memorised the freckles scattered over Oswald’s nose, the water dripping from his hair, his wide eyes showing off those ice-cold irises.

Edward Nygma pulled him in, then with one mighty shove, he let him go. Oswald hit the water and sank to the bottom of the icy depths. Ed watched, trying to school his expression, trying to hold back the rush of pain and thoughts attempting to spill into his brain like a vat of highly corrosive acid.

Finally, finally, the vice around him loosened. He could breathe again.

♠ ♠ ♠

Ed wasn’t sure what happened on the drive from the docks back to the Manor. He remembered the gun still clutched in his hand, pressed against the steering wheel as his fingers refused to unclamp their hold. He remembered it still raining, his wiper blades moving back and forth over the windscreen hypnotically.

Nothing else.

The Manor was the same as he’d left it. Or, perhaps, how _he_ had left it. Lights still on. A coat hanging by the door. Decanter waiting for his touch.

The walls seemed to be holding their breath, waiting for their master’s return, waiting to see if he was safe.

“He isn’t,” Ed told them. The gun shook in his hand still. The leaves outside quaked from the rain. Nervous giggles rose up like bubbles as the picture of the late Van Dahl glared down at him.“Sorry, sir,” he laughed, feathers in his throat, “I killed him.” 

The words dropped like stones in a lake or a body in the river.

Ed decided that the decanter needed to be dealt with, _now_. He swiped it up, taking the top off for a deep sniff. He wasn’t overly familiar with most alcoholic beverages, so he just called it whiskey and declared it safe for consumption, lifting it to his lips. It was empty before it touched the table again.

Lips burning, steam curling like a long-lost smile, Ed tried to find his balance, making his way over to another painting that stood in the centre of the room like the ghost of the man who adorned it. There it was, that sadistic smirk, eyes glowing through the darkness. Ed traced the lines of paint with the tip of his gun, examining the details. There, in the corner, his own likeness stood, discreet like background noise. A piece of furniture.

God, he _hated_ him. And now he was at the bottom of the river. Funny how life works out sometimes.

Perhaps he should destroy the painting too, pull the trigger of his gun once more today, see the canvas fall apart. 

Oh, but what a waste that would be.

The clock by the stairwell began to chime and Ed checked his wrist-watch to see that it was seven in the morning. He’d been awake for a full twenty-four hours now. Perhaps longer.

 _He’ll never be awake again,_ his mind giggled, an old-time hysteria. Ed nodded his head, huffed his breath in an attempt to join in. It was still raining outside, water pelting against the tiled roof of the Manor, the sound echoing in the silent halls. Perhaps it was time for bed.

He stumbled out to the hallway, wet shoes sliding against the tiles, squelching. He greeted the grandfather clock like an old friend, a solid hand on its shoulder. He made his way up the rickety stairs. The old house seemed to be on the verge of falling apart without him.

Ed wouldn’t let himself feel the same.

He staggered to his room, fell into the sheets with a splash, sunk to the bottom of a river to die.

 _Blink_ , he was fine.

He clutched his gun to his chest like a teddy-bear, pulled the bed covers up around him, let them swallow. Gently, he drifted, eyes closing, heart slowing.

He wondered what would happen if the gun were to go off during the night. Would he simply float out of the world, fly off into the sun. See an old friend? Burn to the ground?

Sleep lapped at his sides like a high tide and Edward let it. The rain still tapped against the window. The world still turned. Everything was quiet.

_Drip._

Quiet.

_Drip._

Quiet.

_**BANG!** _

“No,” Ed gasped awake, sitting up in bed to stare deliriously at the gun in his hand. No shot had been fired, the metal still cool to the touch.

He shifted around in the confines of his bed, wrinkling his nose at the apparent dampness. It occurred to him that the rainwater which had soaked into his suit may have leaked out the crevices of his mind, spoiling everything he touched.

_Ring! Ring!_

Ed's hand scrabbled through sheets and pockets until he located his phone, hastily snapping it open.

“H-hello?” he greeted.

He wondered what the waiting period was for a ghost to begin its haunting. 

“Eddie, dear,” Barbara Kean’s symphonic voice sang through the receiver. “How _are_ you?”

He grit his teeth and swallowed. “I was sleeping.”

“On a clear conscience, I hope,” Barbara chirped, laughing to herself. 

Ed frowned. “He was my best friend.”

“ _Was?_ ” Barbara repeated hopefully. 

He nodded to the walls. “Was.”

“Well, good,” Barbara stated, an edge of excitement leaking through. “That goblin deserved whatever it is you did to him.”

Ed blinked. “I shot him and threw him in the river.”

“Well, a bit bland, admittedly, after all you did to Butch and Tabby, but good enough for the man who took your dear Isabella away from–”

“He was my best friend.”

_I'd do anything for you._

“You do realize Oswald deserve–”

“Don’t say his name,” Ed spat, voice rattling off like bullets on wet leaves. He couldn’t hear his name again, he’d decided. It sounded all wrong, now.

“Come now, Eddie,” Barbara tutted impatiently. “It's far too late for second thoughts. Don't get your stomach in a twist. The past is the past. There'll be no bringing him back.”

“I suppose you're right,” Ed agreed faintly. No bringing him back at all.

“Of course, I'm right,” Barbara reaffirmed emphatically. “Ta-ta for now, string bean. I'll call you when I have work for you.”

He swallowed **black**. “Okay.” The line went dead.

Ed sank back down beneath the covers, staring at the ceiling.

He'd deserved it, surely, after what he did to Isabella – after all he did to betray him, setting Ed on Butch like a lapdog, turning him into an embarrassment. He knew the meaning of the word betrayal now.

He was dead now.

He deserved it all.

_**BANG!** _

“Dammit,” Ed hissed, shivering as he scarpered out of bed, untangling himself from sheets. He breathed deeply, listening to the wind howl as he faced the one window. It continued to rain outside, leaves of the trees shaking, the sky concealed from view by hefty clouds. And there, behind him, the sound of a gutter over spilling. 

Behind him?

Ed turned. “Oswald?” His breath seized, fingers clenching around the gun.

 _ **“What?”**_ The man tilted his head, gouged-out eyes blinking vapidly. Water spilt from his mouth and the hole in his chest, painting Ed's sheets in dark sludge. _**“You scared?”**_

Before he knew it, he was holding his breath and closing his eyes as he fired off round after round after round.

_**BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!** Click! Click! Click! Click!_

Edward stared at the gun, realizing the clip had run out. Slowly, his eyes tracked up to the bed, terror slowly melting away as all he saw were torn bed sheets and a mass of goose feathers from his pillow.

“Gone,” Ed noted despondently. “He’s gone.”

The walls glared at him, spitting venomous thoughts and dripping hate. “You killed him,” they said. “He gave you everything and you killed him.”

♠ ♠ ♠

“Mr Nygma, do you–”

“No, I do not know where the Mayor is,” he snapped. “No, he will not return my calls. No, I haven’t seen him in the last twelve hours. No, I have not notified the police because it is yet to be forty-eight hours. But, I can assure you I will – as soon as the time comes.”

Miss Wilkins' mouth quickly snapped shut and she turned, walking from the room on quick-tapping heels.

Ed tapped his right index finger against his desk incessantly. It quaked, the lack of sleep having rattled his brain about and shivered up his bones. He felt so cold – like he’d been doused in water and set to dry in the night-air.

But, it would be fine. It would pass. These things always pass.

♠ ♠ ♠

Ed closed his eyes and saw him, doused in black, eyes peering through the water.

 _ **“You didn’t expect to see me so soon, did you?”**_ He gurgled, features twisted into a new-moon smile. His eyes gouged-out and his mouth blackened. _**“But, one cannot deny love.”**_

Ed opened his eyes and laid there for a minute. Something pressed on his side, kept him weighed on the bed. His limbs were heavy and weightless at the same time.

“God, Oswald.” He forced his spine to twist and pull, sitting up in bed and dragging his legs out, setting them on the floor.

He left his room, let the hallway guide him in the dark, carry him somewhere else. He came to a stop and Ed turned to find himself standing by the door to… to _his_ room. He choked on the air and let his hand push it open.

“Oswald?”

He wasn’t surprised to find _him_ everywhere: draped over the curtains like an art piece, strewn over the dressing table, reflected by the mirror, ensconced in the bed sheets. 

This room breathed his name on every exhale.

“Hello,” Ed whispered back.

Fishing line caught at his clothes, pulling him back and forth around the room, keeping him dithering. He raised his hand to touch, but dropped it back to his side, leaning forward to examine but closing his eyes against the image. He sighed, forcing himself to stop still. 

He was tired. He hadn’t slept properly in over 36 hours. The most he got was when he leaned his head against his desk for five seconds and woke up twenty minutes later.

A pair of slippers peeked out from under the bed dust-ruffle, in Ed’s line of sight. _His_ , of course. He’d worn them under his dressing gown on the nights they spent by the fire. Even loaned them to Ed during the times his mind was escaping and his heart was falling apart in his hands and he’d just needed some warmth.

Did they belong to Ed, now? Were they his to keep? Should he carry them to his room and hide them in his drawers, or wear them every morning and evening, maybe the dressing gown too?

Ed sighed and turned his head to examine the ceiling. Off-white paint, greying a little from time. Probably like _his_ skin right now.

Ed needed to bury himself in a grave and sleep.

Trying not to think, he paced forward to flop onto the bed. No one would mind. This one belonged to him too, now.

He buried his face in the pillow and inhaled deeply.

Bullet holes and bonfires.

Lemongrass and blackberries.

Blood and more blood.

_Damn him to hell and back._

Ed twisted into the sheets, kicked his feet out until they were shoeless, pulled himself down into unconsciousness like he needed.

He slept.

In Ed’s dream, he was down by the river, toes dragging through the polluted water, feeling his skin sizzle. His shirt was stripped away, slices through the skin of his back. Some places were still bleeding.

In the water, he saw a shape. Maybe a fish of some kind. Dark and mysterious, a black shadow in the dark water.

He turned, laying with his front over the pier to get a closer look.

“Hello?” He called.

He didn’t think it would answer.

Slowly, the fish rose up, green eyes paler than the ashen sky. Its black crusted mouth moved in the water, mouthing words Ed didn’t know.

He leaned in closer, upper body hanging over the edge now. The creature tilted its head, raven hair wavering like black seaweed, wet and enchanting.

“What are you?” Ed whispered, wanting to touch but not trusting that he wouldn’t fall in. The creature rose up further, its chin dripping water as its neck was revealed. A set of sharp teeth peeked from its mouth and a blue tongue scraped along them, hungry for something.

“What do you want?” He asked, desperate for the answer.

The creature grinned, and Ed felt as if he’d seen the smile a thousand times before.

 _ **“One cannot deny love.”**_ Suddenly, there was a hand around his wrist and he was pulled from the pier, down, down, down, into the river’s depths. The sunlight disappeared above the murky surface and he would never see it again.

In, out, water in his lungs, in, out, sleeping with the fishes.

Then, he was awake, a strange sort of awake that didn’t settle into itself quite right, sticking to Ed’s skin like wet sand.

“W-wha-?” he spoke, tongue heavy behind his teeth.

“Are you okay, Ed?”

He shook his head, trying to clear it as he shot Oswald a grateful look. “I’m fine, just the dream hanging around me.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Oswald asked him, stroking up and down his arm – it buzzed, no pressure.

“I can’t even remember it,” Ed admitted, rattling his head again. It seemed the clouds had come to stay there.

“That’s okay.” Oswald placed kisses against his neck, wet and unhurried. “You can just lay here with me, okay?”

Ed nodded, remaining sitting up. “Oswald…” clouds strung through his brain from one ear to the other, “What am I doing in your bed?”

“What do you mean?” Oswald laughed like static radio, hand on Ed’s knee below the covers, climbing higher. “We had a meeting with a councilman today.”

“And?” Ed’s breathing quickened, his heart jumping as Oswald grazed his inner thigh.

“And?” Oswald repeated. “We always fuck after meetings.”

“We do?” Oswald’s hand was getting higher.

“Yeah.” Oswald pulled him in by his shirt, pressed their lips together, teeth and tongue. “We do.”

“Oh.” _Of course._ Ed, bucked into Oswald’s hand. “We do!”

“That’s right,” Oswald chuckled, stroking him, so warm and close and… wet? “After all–”

Ed gasped, sweat on his brow as he watched water pour from Oswald’s nose, lips and empty eye sockets.

_**“–One cannot deny love.”** _

“ _No–”_ Ed startled awake, sweat on his brow and length throbbing in his trousers. _“No.”_

♠ ♠ ♠

Ed decided that sleep was for dead people so he checked his pulse and kept moving.

The 48-hour mark for _his_ disappearance came and went with a conversation over a phone that was far too shaky so Ed really should go buy a new one.

All the food in the house tasted like _his_ so he had to order out, paying at the door and eating right there in the foyer, not bothering to put away the containers once he was done.

_Ring ring ring._

“Hello?”

It was the GCPD. They wanted to interview him about that mayor he killed. His place or theirs?

Ed looked around, imagining an officer in this place, hearing the running water, feeling wet breath on the back of their neck, seeing the ghost Ed had made out of his friend. These walls could talk, and who knew what they might say. “I'd be happy to meet with a detective down at the precinct. When should I be there?”

They set a time. Good day, Mr. Nygma.

An inhale, an exhale, checked his pulse, he was fine: Don’t sleep.

The phone was ringing again. Ed should just throw it out.

“Hello?” he growled into the receiver.

“Ed, thank fuck.” Barbara. Again. Stop calling me. “I worry about you.” I’m fine. There’s just a dead person in my head.

He told her about the interview, to stop checking up on him, he was fine.

“Goodbye then.” Yes, goodbye.

♠ ♠ ♠

City Hall again. Questions and answers. To and fro. Not sleeping. _His_ office. Not sleeping. Three reporters: Crooked Tie, Wireframe Glasses, Purple Hat. Not sleeping. Questions, questions, questions. 

_WHERE IS MAYOR COBBLEPOT_ on the morning paper. It was morning now, apparently.

Where is he?

Mr. Nygma, where is he?

Who knows.

Not sleeping.

Where is he?

♠ ♠ ♠

Don’t forget me, Ed.

“Oswald Cobblepot, where is Oswald Cobbelpot?”

You won’t forget me.

♠ ♠ ♠

Tuesday. Interview day. 

Ed chose not to take a car, convinced he could not trust _his_ drivers around him. They probably knew something was wrong; could smell it in his hair. Yes, his hair, that was it.

So he walked down from city hall, admiring Gotham – _Oswald’s_ Gotham, his mind whispered – with its leather studded, collar-popped psychos and its more frightening, rainbow dipped fluorescent fiends. It hadn’t deigned to show signs of a new day, choosing instead to keep the grey haze of smoke wrapped around its head, blocking out the sun as it groaned and moaned at the thought of being awake when the moon wasn’t. 

Ed wondered why the city couldn't feel it. Didn’t they know that he was gone? How did the city continue to sail without a raven-haired menace captaining at the helm?

This was Oswald’s Gotham. A place that only smiled when it was dark enough that its friends couldn’t see. A place that only laughed when it couldn’t contain in it anymore, bending over backwards, cracking its spine and traffic-hung roads with its force.

Oswald’s Gotham was a drug-laced skeleton that someone decided to paint black because it wasn’t dark enough already. It coughed and sputtered green spots and disturbed visions and tried to forget the inked out newspapers that blew over its legs to remind it of the days before. 

Oswald’s Gotham leaned back, put its feet on the steel railing and told the world “If you don’t belong here, just leave.”

Ed shivered. He was everywhere.

♠ ♠ ♠

The GCPD bullpen was hectic as ever. No one turned this time, all too busy or him too invisible. 

Ed got the feeling as he stood at the front desk that he had met someone special here a long time ago, but he steadfastly ignored the memory and the black figure standing at the edge of his vision, instead greeting the lady at the desk solemnly and allowing himself to be lead to an interview room.

The room was just a touch too quiet and Ed found his mind wandering echoey paths.

_Do I know you? Do I know you? Do I know you?_

_No, but I know you I know you I know you._

_Then you know that you’re standing too close too close too close._

“Nygma?”

Ed knew that Detective I'm-Better-Than-You voice.

“Hey Jim, would you look at that, he showed up.”

– And that bad breath anywhere.

“Detectives Gordon and Bullock,” he greeted, tried to find that piece of himself that enjoyed the games with these two, liked the cat and mouse; the grinning psycho they hated, teasing and mocking, pushing them into their disgust. He couldn’t find it. All the helium had been lost and he was deflated.

“Ed, we’re here to talk to you about the Mayor,” Jim began, walking around the table to sit down across from him.

“Yeah, we want to know if you’ve got him locked up in some God-forsaken warehouse, eating rats and rotten apple cores for your fun.” Bullock grinned, yellow teeth.

Ed blinked the river of blood out of his eyes, looking from Bullock to Jim. “Is that really what you think?”

Jim sighed, flashing daggers at his partner before focusing on Ed once more. “We just want to know what happened to the Mayor, Ed. You were closest to him–”

“Yes, very close.” 

“–And you have acted out violently in the past, even if you have been–” Jim made a face, “–Reformed.”

Ed grit his teeth, watching the detectives closely. They smiled back at him.

_They think I did it. They know, they **know**. They look at me and see a murderer, a killer. They want me to be at fault, think I deserve to go back to Arkham, back to hell where the screams won’t just be in my head, where the walls bleed and my fingers waste away. Back to cold and alone. Alone, I’m so alone._

“I would never hurt Oswald,” Ed’s mouth spat out onto the table. 

The detectives shared a look. “Why’s that then?”

“Because…” Ed chewed, already feeling the scratch of the Arkham uniform rubbing against his wrists. “Because…” _One cannot deny–_ “We were in love.”

“You what?” The detectives stared at him in shock while Ed struggled to breathe. The edges of his vision were beginning to crumble away; the world wasn’t quite right anymore. It hadn’t been right for a long time.

His mouth kept spitting; “Oswald and I, we... we were in love–we were _together_. I-I loved him. I could never hurt him–would never. Even the thought,” Ed swallowed a riverbed, “Makes me sick.”

It reminded him of being up against Kristen’s door, pinning her there as he swore he could _never never never_ even as he _did did did_. 

“Ed,” Jim was trying to meet his eye and Ed was forced to look at him, to see the doubts behind his blue irises. “It says in our files that you had a girlfriend.” _Oh dear, oh dear._ “We know because you came in when she was found dead.” _Oh dear, oh dear._ Jim tilted his head. “Bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

“Y-you’re right,” Ed breathed shakily, “I-in the sense that Isabella was my _friend_. Just not–” He cleared his throat. “Just not my girlfriend.” He nodded. Once more for sure; “Just friends.”

Their eyes were a solid weight on his chest, boring holes through him, dark and deep. “I see.” 

Ed could breathe again.

They asked him countless questions, said they needed a picture of how events transpired to lead them here. Ed’s tongue spun out truths and lies in equal measure, dancing a jig to make the detectives nod and agree. Soon they were packing up their things, folding notepads into their coat-pockets with forced smiles.

“Very good, Mr. Nygma. We’ll be in contact if we need anymore from you,” Jim told him, voice set into that forced neutral tone he used on every measly ear.

“And if we find him,” Bullock chuckled. 

Jim sighed. “And if we find him.”

Ed nodded, feeling hollow-skulled as he was directed out of the room and into the bullpen once more.

He was exhausted. The monster in his bed called to him. It was getting harder to focus. The cops around him stirred in a pot of suspicion and Ed felt a million eyes on him at once.

“Hey, stickman, stop blocking up the stairs.”

“S-sorry?” Ed looked up to see an oil slick smile and felt a punch on his shoulder.

“Walk with me, stickman.” And he did, not really knowing what else he should do except follow. They reached a desk and the cop sat down, stretching his legs out and looking up at him. “You’re Nygma, right?” he rubbed his chin like he _knew_ something. “The Mayor’s boy.” _He knows, he knows, he knows._

“That’s me,” Ed’s mouth spat. “Y-you know?” _He knows he knows heknowsknowsknowsknows._

“Damn, you look like shit,” the cop chuckled. Ed’s mouth formed an O. “Have you slept?”

“Sleep…” Ed shook his head. “Sleep is for dead people.” _Dead, dead, doormat people._

“Yeesh,” he laughed again, slippery snake eyes looking him up and down. “I suppose losing your _‘boss’_ ,” the cop winked, “Will do that to a man.”

Ed frowned, nodded. “Y-yes. I suppose… I can fill a room, or just one heart.” he nodded to himself. “Others can have me, but I cannot be shared. What am I?”

The cop burst out laughing. “Dude, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Loneliness…” Ed’s mind was foggy, “Loneliness can make some people do terrible things.”

“Loneliness?” the cop scoffed, “Is that what you call it?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He smiled, waved his hand. “Nothing, nothing.” He licked his lips, tongue forked and treacherous. Ed blinked, trying to find the normal shapes. “You know me and your boss had a deal going on.” _Oh?_ “Do you think he’ll be back to collect on it?”

“Hard to say,” Ed shrugged. “I thought he was gone for good but I still see him sometimes when I’m sleeping.”

The man guffawed, moving to slap Ed hard in the ribs. “Yeah, you do!” 

Ed jolted back, rubbing his stomach. “That being said, I’m not even sure what your business is.”

“Oh, I know a guy who knows a guy. We manufacture a kind of… party favour, if you will.” The cop shrugged. “I help distribute it.”

“Right.” Ed blinked. “What does it do?”

“Give people a bit of an energy boost when the road gets tough. Actually,” the man laughed, “You look like you could use one.”

“Really?” Ed watched as the man leant over his desk and rifled through the drawers.

“Yeah man,” he turned back, handing him a box that could have been from a pharmacy if he didn’t know any better. “You can keep taking them too, me and the boys made sure of it. And if you wanna sleep, just take this;” he handed Ed another box, “You’ll be out like a light before you know it.”

Ed stared at the boxes, one in each hand. People walked by and Ed subtly lowered his hands, leaning forward. “Is it safe?”

“Of course it is!” The cop boomed. “Your boss said he’d skin us if we killed our customers.”

“Right.” Ed stared down at the boxes.

“Go on,” the guy said. “Get home and take one. Can’t hurt to try.”

♠ ♠ ♠

It was back to City Hall, chewing on the questions, questions, questions that they fed him until Ole Mrs. Brown came over with her stern but caring look and murmured “Isn’t it about time you go home?”

He walked through the door and tore open the second box, walked up the stairs and swallowed two. He dithered on the landing; Oswald’s bedroom or his? _The monster or the mirror?_

 _I feel your every move, I know your every thought. I’m with you from birth, and I'll see you when you rot. What am I?_ The hallways bared its teeth at him as he started to sway.

“Oswald’s. Definitely Oswald’s.”

He collapsed face-first into the bed, breathed in the river-water and went to sleep.

♠ ♠ ♠

No dreams.

Nothing but darkness and peace.

Thank god.

♠ ♠ ♠

He slept thirteen hours. He was still tired when he awoke. With a sigh, he heaved himself up. Grabbed Oswald’s robe because he might as well wrap himself in more misery. Chose to shoot up with Oswald’s cologne for the scent.

_Oswald. OswaldOswaldOswald. Kraken in the deep threatening to pull him under too._

He found himself retreating back to the alcove off the main dining room where he’d curled up with his classics and watched the paint on the ceiling fall away in his misery.

_“Ed, I as much as anyone know how hard it is to lose someone. Even if you’ve only known them for, like, a week. But this is not healthy behaviour. It is depressing. And, if I’m being honest, a bit scary.”_

_“Less scary. Check.”_

He looked up at the seagulls screaming on the ceiling. He just wanted this to be over.

He stayed there for days, occasionally rising to do productive things like answer phone calls from City Hall and Barbara, or put another of Oswald’s beloved records onto the turntable. Oswald’s taste had always been very different, running through punk, emo and pop.

 _“It's okay in the day,”_ the latest singer crooned, voice raspy. _“I'm staying busy: Tied up enough so I don't have to wonder where is he? Got so sick of crying, so just lately. When I catch myself, I do a one-eighty.”_

Ed sighed, turning to look at the box on the side table for the thousandth time that day.

It was too much. He wasn’t going to survive this. The ceiling of this Godforsaken haunted place had caved in and the sky had opened up. Now he was soaking in black sludge and river water, watching the bloated fish struggling to swim forward; just like him. Couldn’t breathe properly; just like him.

Ed reached a hand out for a ledge, a ladder, _something_.

He snatched up the box, blinked as the water distorted it. Warnings bled across the side. Who even cared? He was finished anyway.

He tore it open, popped one out. Swallowed.

He’d just take one. One for now. Just to see if it worked. If it didn’t, well, he still had that gun lying in wait upstairs.

 _“He's fierce in my dreams, seizing my guts,”_ the words began to fly, _“He floats me with dread. Soaked in soul, he swims in my eyes by the bed. Pour myself over him, moon spilling in,and I wake up alone.”_

He sighed.

Suddenly, Ed felt a stirring in his gut. His focus sharpened, the world feeling crystalline.

 _Drag, drip. Drag, drip._ “Ed?” 

He turned and there he was: river-wet crows in his hair, eyes monsters from below the floor.

“Yes?” Ed scratched out. He couldn’t believe it, no.

“So you’re just going to sit there?” Oswald sighed, rolled those seaglass eyes. “Of course.”

“S-sorry, I–” Ed shook his head at the image.

“Get up and make yourself a sandwich for fuck’s sake.” Oswald waved his cane at him. “You look like you haven’t eaten in a week.”

Slowly, Ed smiled. “I probably haven’t. I sent Olga on holiday.”

“Of course you would kill me and send my maid on holiday.” Oswald rolled his eyes again. “Well, come on! Get up before I knock your brains out and eat them like fritters.”

Ed stood and followed Oswald out into the world. He could do this, he decided. Make it sipping on this alone. He could. It would be possible.

“You’re not real, are you?” He asked the glistening spectre, just to make sure.

“No, I’m _not_ ,” Not-Oswald rolled his eyes at him. “How could I possibly be real, Ed?”

“Good.” He nodded.

“But you want me to be real, don’t you?”

Ed said nothing. The Kraken had tempted him over the edge. Oh, to be fallen.


	2. Shadow in My Head

Ed straightened his suit jacket, watching his reflection closely. He recalled running his fingers over neckties and picking out the brightest shades – how they’d bloomed against Oswald’s neck like roses.

He sighed, turned and left, making his way down the stairs to the dining room. He stopped, staring at the river water eyes at the head of the table. They stared back.

“There you are.” He smiled, avoiding the puddles as he walked over to take his place at the table's edge. The new part-time maid he’d hired had already set out breakfast and the morning paper. Perfect.

“Going to work today, Edward?” He was leaning his arrow-head chin on his hand, looking up at him through wet eyelashes. “Or are you still too grief-stricken to venture outside?”

Ed quirked his brow. “Grief-stricken?”

“That’s what the paper says.” Oswald–but _not_ Oswald–nodded to the newspaper, a drop of water flicking off his nose.

Ed leant over, looking at the front cover properly.

EDWARD NYGMA GRIEF STRICKEN

**Was there more to the Mayor’s relationship with his Chief of Staff?**

“What?” Ed snatched it up in a riptide. “That gossip columnist is about to get a strongly worded fax–why are you laughing?”

Oswald paused in his gasping snorts to shake away a piece of seaweed. “Don’t worry Ed, it’s not real.”

“What?” The newspaper dissolved into sand in Ed’s hands. “Dammit.” Not again.

“Actually, can you hand that back, I was reading it before.” Oswald reached out and swept up the sand into his palms. He peered through it, suddenly throwing a portion of it away. “Sports section.”

Ed rolled his eyes, trying to keep down the black water in his throat. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“Am not.” Water ran down his cheek and seagulls screeched from above.

Ed grit his teeth and leaned over, blowing hard so a section of the sand fell off the table.

“Jokes on you, that was the crossword,” Oswald rained on him, seaspray everywhere.

“ _Please_ ,” Ed bared his teeth, “If you are going to pretend to read a newspaper, at least make it convincing.”

“Fine,” Oswald huffed, shaking out the sand into paper again. “Let me just get my reading glasses.” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out–

“ _Where did you get those?_ ” Ed growled out, rising from his chair rapidly.

“What?” Oswald batted his wet lashes innocently behind Miss Kringle’s glasses, smiling placidly. “Oh, _these_.” He tapped the frames with his forefinger. “I just want to make sure I’ve got your attention.”

Edward grit his teeth, clenching his fists around the back of his chair. He could get rid of him. He could do it: Snatch up the box of pills and throw them to the grinding teeth of the waste disposal for it to chew.

Oswald used a knife to pry a barnacle off his suit jacket before placing it between his lips and swallowing.

Ed didn't want to be rid of him.

 _Ding dong,_ the front doorbell sounded.

“You better get that,” Oswald told him, “If today’s breakfast is any indication, I doubt she can open the front door on her own.”

“Yes, thank you,” Ed rolled his eyes and stood, walking out and down the hall to the front door, opening it.

Glass shattered like ice; everything crystal.

“Oh. It’s you.” Ed’s smile dropped.

“Hi, Ed,” Jim greeted, awkwardly trying to pass a grimace as a smile. “Just here to check in again.”

“Right.” Ed heard movement over his shoulder and glanced back to see Oswald standing in the doorway, waggling his fingers at him.

“Something the matter, Ed?” He turned back to see Jim looking at him strangely.

“No, I just thought I… heard something.” Ed shifted in his suit jacket uncomfortably. “How about I show you into the dining room and we can talk there. I’ll ask the maid if she can make you something.”

“No, um, I’d rather not.” Jim cleared his throat.

“Scared he’ll poison yah, am I right, Jim, my old friend?” Oswald snarked. “I understand; he shot me and dumped me in the river.”

“Would you _please–_ ” Ed turned to him before remembering himself and facing Jim again. “...Follow me, detective.”

“...Right.” Ed led him through to the dining room, taking his place with his steadily cooling eggs. “So, um, Ed, I’m aware that you have claimed to have a… a relationship with the missing person.”

“Ooh, what a scandalous lie, Eddie!” Oswald cooed. “Not to mention ironic.”

“Y-yes, we were together.” Ed shot Oswald _(shot Oswald)_ a look to shut him up.

“I’m just wondering…” Jim breathed a sigh, “Was there a chance Oswald was spending a lot of time with… anyone else?”

“What?” Ed dropped his fork, staring blankly at him.

“Oh, this should be _good_.”

“I mean… was there a chance he was… sleeping with someone else?” Jim winced at him. Ed stood on shaking bedrock, felt the river gurgle in his gut.

“You dare to insinuate that _my_ Oswald–” he spat, head clogged with fumes and smoke.

“ _Your_ Oswald?”

“–Would cheat on me?” He shook his head.

“Since when have I ever been _yours?_ ” Seaspray washed against his ankles.

“How _dare_ you?”

“Only in your wildest, hottest, wettest dream would I ever be _yours_ , Ed.”

“Would you shut up?” He finally snapped, glaring at Oswald, wishing the river would just swallow him again.

“Uh, I’m sorry, Ed,” Jim had that strange look on his face again, but it quickly disappeared. “I know it’s unlikely, but we have to cover all possible options. Plus Harvey made me promise to ask you.”

Ed sighed, deflating a little. “Of course, he did.” He sank back into his chair, bubble rising to the surface. “Havey always was duller than an overused metaphor.”

“Well, there’s not much I can say. We’ll keep looking. The coastguard are planning to start sweeping the river–”

“They what?” His muscles tensed, a shark about to bite.

“There’s no promise that we’ll find him there,” Jim told him, clearly trying to be sympathetic. “But Ed, you may have to face the fact that Oswald might not be coming back.”

Ed’s tongue fell out of his mouth. River water started pouring through the holes in the ceiling, flooding the room, seeping into his clothes. Oswald flashed behind Jim, his face twisted into anguish as he mouthed _say something._ Freckles scattered over his nose, water dripping from his hair, wide eyes and gaping hole, _say something._

“Ed?” Jim was _looking_ at him again. “Ed, you don’t seem… You know you’re entitled to some state counselling if you need it. I know…” He cleared his throat, “I know this must be… difficult for you.”

“I don’t need _counselling_ ,” Ed kettle-hissed, “I just need–” He met Not-Oswald’s river-water eyes, they stared back. Not the same. “I don’t need anything. I’m fine.”

“Yes, well,” Jim shifted uncomfortably. “Feel free to call the station if you change your mind.”

“I won’t.” He leaned back in his chair, a scowl etching into his face. Not-Oswald was still watching him. “You can go now.”

“Yes, I have work to do,” Jim cleared his throat and stood. “I’ll be in touch if we hear anything.”

Ed wished for a moment that it was _Jim_ he had shoved in the river instead. “Of course you will, Jimbo.”

“Right.” Jim nodded. “Right.”

♠ ♠ ♠

Ed snuck a glance at the clock: 4 pm. That should be fine. It was fine. Sure, it hadn’t been a lot of time since his last, but it was fine. He had this on a schedule. It was all under control. It should be fine.

He opened the box, placed one between his lips and swallowed. Now to wait.

He wandered around the house, laughed at the judgmental glares of the haunted Van Dahl portraits, turned that music of Oswald’s up to full volume, waited for the river water to pour out of his mind.

_Drip, drag. Drip, drag._

Ed turned to him instantly. “You’re late. I expected you two minutes ago.”

Not-Oswald shrugged, accidentally dislodging a crab on his shoulder. It scuttled away into the shadows. “I guess just swallowing pills doesn’t cut it these days.”

“Maybe.” Ed twitched, thinking he felt something crawl up his skin. It was nothing.

“So, I see we’re doing this everyday now,” Not-Oswald pointed out.

“The pills help me focus,” Ed explained. “You’re just a side-effect.”

“Oh, _of course_ ,” Oswald nodded convincingly. “Just one of those unintended outcomes you always go on about.”

“Exactly,” he agreed.

“Ed!” Oswald yelled, that monster peeking behind his picket-fence teeth again. “Why can’t you just admit it? You’re grieving. Killing me changed you just like I said it would.”

“No, I–” Ed shook his head. “There’s just this… feeling that’s all. And it’s not grief! It’s… loneliness.”

_I can fill a room or just one heart, others can have me but I cannot be shared. What am I?_

“Ed,” Not-Oswald shook his head. “You can’t honestly believe that–”

“Loneliness,” Ed affirmed. “It happens all the time.”

“No, _grief_ happens all the time.” Then suddenly Oswald was sitting, dripping on his couch again, those infuriating glasses perched on his nose as he opened up a book.

“Take those off!” Ed hissed through his teeth.

“No, I shan’t.” Oswald didn’t look up. “It says here that, according to renowned psychiatrist, Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, there are five stages of grief; Denial–”

“I hate psychiatrists.” Ed grumbled rolling his eyes when Oswald shot him a look.

“–Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance,” Oswald finished. 

“What utter nonsense,” Ed spat, balling his fists. 

“It seems to me that you’re currently in the “anger” stage,” Oswald surmised, eyes flicking down to the open page whilst a crab scuttled up the side of his face.

“What does that nonsense mean, anyway? I am _not_ grieving over you–him. You–he betrayed me. Killed someone I cared about, then _lied_ about it. I feel nothing for him.”

Not-Oswald pursed his lips and blinked. “Perhaps it’s the denial stage, then.”

“Shut up!” Ed yelled. He stormed over to Oswald, snatching the book out of his hands to hold it up to his face. “What is this? There are no words.”

“Of course not, it’s a hallucination, Ed,” Oswald snapped. “Now, give it back, I wasn’t done being intellectual.”

Ed glared at him, but handed the empty book back nonetheless.

“Now,” Oswald adjusted his glasses, “It says here that the key first step to dealing with your grief is acknowledging it.” Oswald looked up. “I see that you have yet to do that. Do you want to give it a go?”

“I’d rather be torn apart by wolves,” Ed spat.

“Okay then.” Not-Oswald turned back to the book, water dripping from his fringe. “Now, it says here that you must proceed through all of the stages of grief to finally accept what happened and move onto the next stage of your life.”

“And how long is that supposed to take?” Ed asked.

“It says, depending on the loss and how willing the subject is to participate and help themselves, it can take anything from a few months to a year.”

“A _year?_ ” Ed repeated. “In no way is that happening. Isn’t there a way to skip ahead, to just ignore all that other stuff and go straight to the ‘acceptance’?”

Oswald frowned, flicking through the pages. “If there is a way, it’s not written in here.”

“Of course not, the pages are blank!”

“Ed, whatever you think, this process is normal and healthy. It’ll get you to where you want to go eventually,” Oswald read.

“I am not ‘normal people’. I am Edward Nygma. And I will not allow _grief_ and loneliness to stand in my way.” The water around his ankles gurgled and boiled, bubbles rising rapidly to the surface. “If I want to succeed, then I must find a way to move on. How do I move on?”

Oswald shook his head and sighed. “Well, there are a number of ways. Sometimes people find new hobbies, get a new job, find a new passion. In relationships, they often find themselves a new partner, or in oth–”

“Wait, what was that?” Ed stared at Oswald, eyes wide. “I can find a new partner? Like a replacement? ”

“What?” Not-Oswald shook his head, water spray behind him.

“That’s brilliant! I’ll just find a replacement. Another person who shares my intellect! Who will answer my riddles and advise me on where to go in my life.” Ed cheered. “I can be a member of a group but can never blend in. What am I?”

“You… are so lost,” Oswald sighed, shaking his head. 

“I will stand out again!” Ed told him. “I can be my own person without you.”

“You cannot think that finding a replacement for me will help you move on.”

Ed smirked, leaning into the dripping figure. “Watch me.”

♠ ♠ ♠

Ed made a list. Oh, such a clever list. There were so many greats in Gotham and he was ready to start at the top of the tops.

Of course, he was sure he wouldn’t need all of his candidates. His plan was so fool-proof, he was bound to find Oswald’s replacement in no time! Still, it was in his best interest to keep a few spare.

Oh, everything was going to go brilliantly.

“You’re going out?”

“Yes, I'm–” Ed let a smile slip through the drainpipe as he adjusted the line of his suit. It was bright green and _daring_ and he loved it. “I'm excited. It's been so long.”

“Mhmm.” Not-Oswald was biting his blue lips, looking at him strangely. “You still wanted me here when you're going out?”

“I've calculated my body's responses and I know the hallucinogenic properties will wear off in time,” Ed explained, struggling with his cuffs. Oswald always was much better at getting the cufflinks straight and presentable. 

“Ed…” He looked over and everything had changed; Oswald’s skin no longer glistened with river water, his hair was soft and fell against his forehead naturally, he held no cane, merely leaned against the couch.

“You're wearing my pyjamas,” Ed noted. “What's going on?”

“Don't you remember?” Oswald’s voice dipped into liquid chocolate, delicious to taste. He stepped forward onto one delicate, pale foot. “You and me, Ed? In your apartment. Just you and me.”

“Yes…” Things had been different then: Simpler. Ed had been a moth; Oswald the flame. They spent hours together talking, eating, killing. “But, why…?”

The lights dipped blood red and Oswald was right in front of him. He placed his hands on his shoulders and Ed felt his heart float out of his chest to the surface. 

“Ed…” Oswald spoke lowly, trailing his hands over Ed’s chest, odd drips of water figmenting away beneath his touch. “I want us to play a game.”

Ed blinked, trying to stay present, remember this wasn’t real. “What kind of game?” In fact, it didn’t even feel real. The touches and strokes were more the memory of such things recreated before him.

“I want to play pretend with you,” Oswald was purring. Ed watched a swallow move down his throat. “Without any clothes on.”

“O-oh.” No clothes. Why? Oh, but that would be a fun game. Perhaps he could even examine his own memory of Oswald’s body, see where it gets blurry. See some other things too. That would be nice. Oh, but– “But I have to go!”

“You can go tomorrow night,” Oswald cooed, playing with his tie-pin. “Don’t you want to stay?”

Ed wanted to stay.

Oswald led them to the couch and Ed decided to go become a new man tomorrow.

♠ ♠ ♠

“That won’t happen again, will it?” 

The Kraken’s teeth gleamed. “Of course not.”

♠ ♠ ♠

“I have to go, Oswald.”

“Don’t you want to stay?” A siren’s song.

“N-no, I… I want to go.”

Ed spent the whole drive there wondering why Oswald was determined to keep him from improving. As he walked up the steps to his future victim’s apartment, however, he forgot about it.

♠ ♠ ♠

“So, that one was a dud.” Not-Oswald was dipping a puddle on his couch, but Ed didn’t have the heart to tell him off.

“I admit; she wasn't all that I expected,” he sighed, quickly shoving his gun into his desk drawer: he didn't want to look at it. “Not much to be done now.”

“Except kill her, of course.” Oswald tutted. “All those pills? Not exactly foolproof.”

“I need it to look like a suicide,” Ed justified. “And she'd just left them on her desk.”

“It wasn't the plan, though.” He could feel Oswald’s eyes on him: a hungry, patient shark smelling blood in the water. “So, are you going to talk about the gun?”

Ed had thought enough about it during the whole drive home, the walk up the steps, up until he'd crushed the pill between his teeth and Oswald had arrived.

“Well, good,” Not-Oswald smirked teeth. “Because I know what happened and I want to talk about it.”

“Nothing happened!” Ed hissed, seagulls screeching and snapping at his fingers.

He had pointed the gun at her and everything was fine, all he had to do was pull the trigger. Why couldn't he have just pulled the trigger?

“Ed, you–”

“Please, just _stop!_ ”

Oswald had shown up, rain in his hair, tears on his lashes, begging, begging, begging, mouth falling away in horror as blood soaked through his clothes and a bullet made love to his heart.

“You know what, Ed? I'd be _happy_ to go!” Oswald’s jaw shifted, preparing to bite. “You can just stay here listening to that album of mine you like, pretending I'm here when I'm not. I'm _not_ , Ed.”

Ed glared, “I know that, Oswald.”

“Then fucking go ahead and wake up alone.” The room became empty again.

“It doesn't mean anything.” He sniffed. “I'm just not myself these days.” The ceiling paint began to run, colour bleeding into the walls until everything became grey. “And I know you call it _grief!_ But I… I'm sure it's the...the lack of _guidance_.”

The walls echoed dark things that Ed couldn't hear.

“You did say there would be no Edward Nygma without you, but…” He stopped, thinking he heard someone speak. “What was that?”

_One cannot deny love._

No. “Dammit, I’m just gonna listen to the record,” Ed stormed out of the room and left the whispering shore behind.

♠ ♠ ♠

_Drip, drip._

A Kraken's head on his pillow, sinking sewer into the sheets. They met in a dream and it was real for those few moments, long warm conversations tangling them together between glimpses of the sun.

Awoke alone, dripping wet, seagulls crying out overhead. So alone.

♠ ♠ ♠

“So…”

“So.”

A voice like a tree falling in the forest.

“I'm here again.”

“Yes,” Ed watched the Kraken from beneath lowered eyelashes, “Thank you.”

“You are so lost, Ed.” 

The bubbles rose to the surface and he waved goodbye to stability.

♠ ♠ ♠

“Ed, for fuck’s sake, it’s been days! Are you even alive?”

“I don’t know, Barbara.” _His laugh had been an electric storm and I hear it in the songs._ “It’s up for debate.”

♠ ♠ ♠

“Well, that one was a complete waste of time.”

“Yes,” Ed growled, feeling low-tide. It was time for another sleep. He couldn’t remember his last. “Who knew writers were so pretentious about their work?”

“I took a picture of the part where he asked if you wanted an autograph.” Oswald waved a slightly damp polaroid in his face. “You know what? I’ll keep that one!” He crumpled it up inside his mouth and began to chew. “Who’s next on this list of crazy-town?”

“The chemistry professor at Gotham University,” Ed answered, using his red marker to place a large X over the writer’s face. “He’s published papers on pollution and air quality surrounding–”

“I don’t care, Ed!” Not-Oswald declared – that frostbite smile chilling in its resemblance to the real thing. “I’m just here to watch you make a fool of yourself, apparently.”

Ed closed his eyes and tried to block out the fact that there was a flightless bird who couldn’t swim living in his head and calling him a fool because being in his head was better than being alone.

“Ed?” A ringing voice above the water.

“It’s nothing.” He opened his eyes. “Just nothing.”

♠ ♠ ♠

Ed was reading the newspaper. It was real this time – he’d checked it twice. “No leads in missing mayor case. Gotham citizens fear the worst for Cobblepot.” It made him feel uneasy. There was a statement about the coastguard beginning their search.

_They’re going to find out and we will be trapped again. Arkham’s bars are calling, Edward. You can’t hide forever._

All of a sudden the newspaper was ripped from his hands and he looked up to see Tabitha and Barbara watching him, twin smirks on their faces.

“I was reading that.”

“Oops.” Tabitha shrugged, unapologetic.

“Just tryna get your attention, Ed,” Barbara asserted, a hand resting on her hip. “Hasn’t been so easy, lately.”

“I’ve been busy.” Ed carefully clasped his hands together atop the table, making eye contact with each of them separately.

“You see, I would say _we’ve_ been busy,” Barbara attested, nodding to Tabitha, “Organising the shambles of a Post-Penguin Underworld. An Enterprise in which you,” she pointed a finger at him, “Agreed to help.”

“Miss Kean…” He paused. There was something in the air. Last time they’d spoken face-to-face, Oswald had been alive and well. Then Ed had gone and changed that. “The Mayor–my friend–is missing. The underworld knows what that means. They’ve already moved on.” Ed could feel his left hand shaking–aching for something. “But for the rest of Gotham, I need to be the public face of grief.” He reached for the box, opening it with anticipation. He’d been keeping it close lately; his hand never far from it.

“Mhmm.” Barbara plopped down on the table, snapping the box shut with a gloved finger. “Or,” She slid the box away from him and into her grasp, holding it up in demonstration. “Could these be the reason you’re so distracted?”

“I’ve had trouble sleeping,” Ed justified, avoiding her gaze.

“Yeah, well,” She rattled the box, “They’ll do that.”

Ed clenched his jaw. He needed that box in his hand again, felt a drought growing in the pit of his stomach without it. “I cannot let insomnia derail my day. Those pills help me focus.”

“This is wasting our time,” Tabitha grit out.

Baraba snapped her head towards him. “You’re not feeling guilty, are you, Eddie? For plugging your buddy and pushing him in the drink?”

_“You can’t do this.”_

Ed forced a smirk as his guts floated with dread. He turned to Tabitha. “How is your hand?”

“Still hurts.” Ed nodded, taking a moment to gather himself. “But I’m hoping it’ll feel better soon.”

He turned to Barbara, ready to answer. “ _Guilt_ is a useless emotion. And if you can’t control the gangs without me, perhaps you shouldn’t be running things.”

The girls shared a look. They seemed to have their own silent language. Ed remember how it felt to shoot Oswald a raised eyebrow and have him know exactly what he meant. 

He rattled his head to clear it and repeated; “I will help you when I can.”

“Don’t take too long,” Barbara said, probably trying to be threatening. She slid the pillbox back over to him and he felt like he could breathe again. “And careful with those. When I took them, I saw some crazy things.”

♠ ♠ ♠

It was useless; he’d never find a mentor like Oswald – no one else could begin to carry that knife.

No, Ed didn’t need a mentor: He needed an enemy. So many great rivalries have been cast through history, and Ed was eager to join the charge of the likes of Tesla and Edison, Burr and Hamilton, Hatfields and McCoys… 

Jim Gordon and Edward Nygma.

♠ ♠ ♠

“You’re really going through with this?”

“I really am,” Ed sighed. He couldn’t tell how long it had been since the last rest: Two days or three. Perhaps more? He’d gotten quite terrible at keeping track. Perhaps that’s why his hands were shaking as he wrote out his phone number over the centre table’s chess pieces. Or why it had been so hard to delicately place the battery units beneath each table.

“I suppose I should have expected that your next idea would be as barbaric as your first,” Not-Oswald criticized, rolling his eyes.

“If I cared about your opinion, I would have asked for it.” Ed carefully arranged the chess pieces in their starting positions.

“Inducing a hallucination isn’t asking for it?”

He pursed his lips. “We better get going.” He snuck out the door, not quite pleased that he couldn’t lock it but he’d only used his picks to open it in the first place.

In the car, he tore a page from his notebook, beginning to write his script across the page.

“A singing telegram? Really?”

“Yes, really.” He sighed. “Now, let me write.”

_Six masters have passed,_

Ed felt dripping on his neck. The water ran nowhere, just staying in place.

_Six masters have passed,_

A huff of breath brushed his cheek, sending him to shivers.

_Six masters have passed, there’s about to be more;_

“Oswald, please,” he closed his eyes, “Don’t do this again.”

“Why not?” A wet hand pressed against his chest. “I know you, Ed. I made you.” He felt lips brush his ear. “You can try and deny it, but I know you want this.”

He felt a hand crab-crawl up his thigh. “No, Oswald.”

“You don’t mean that,” Lips pressed down on his neck.

“No, Oswald.” He steadfastly moved to the passenger street, away from the hallucination. “I do mean it.”

Not-Oswald’s tongue split through the middle, turning venomous and vicious. “Just so you know, this plan is ridiculous and I look forward to the minute where I get to laugh in your face.” He left, leaving Ed’s ears ringing in his wake.

“Why can’t you just let me move on?” Ed sighed, pressing pen to paper.

_Six masters have passed, there’s about to be more; A king, a Queen, and their corps._

♠ ♠ ♠

_Thirty players standing, in formal black and white. A move from one begets one more, until they all begin to fight._

Suddenly, Oswald was there, smirk in place. 

“Thanks for coming.” Down below, hands slammed on clocks and knights and kings danced.

“Like I had a choice?” Not-Oswald hissed, sea spray catching his cheek as he leaned in.

“Oh, you’ll thank me.” A smile grew on Ed’s face, the world slanting as he said, “This is going to be electrifying.” _Like your laugh, like your smile, the salt on your breath._ He held up his controller and pressed the red button dramatically.

“If you’re really so certain, perhaps I should have a snack.” Oswald chuckled to himself and a bag of popcorn appeared in his hands, the corners sagging soggy sadly.

“Really?” Ed scowled. Oswald took a large handful of popcorn and stuffed it into his mouth, stray kernels flicking to the floor. “Never mind.” He turned his attention to the chess matches below, ignoring the hallucination’s loud chewing. 

Oh, so much amateurism. Ed could easily reach at least three checkmates in five moves alone on several boards. One in particular nagged his brain. 

“Knight to Queen 3, mate in two!” He called down to the playing floor only to be met with hissed shushes and numerous glares. “Oh, honestly.” He turned back to Oswald, “They call anyone a grandmaster these days.”

Oswald continued to chew noisily on his popcorn before swallowing to ask; “Can we discuss why you’re doing this?”

“I’ve told you why,” he growled. Why did Oswald always insist on being incessantly irritating?

“The _real_ reason,” Oswald amended, leaning in closer. Ed turned back to watch the matches below; a set stage awaiting a comedia d'larte. He didn’t want to hear his hallucination’s nonsense. This was supposed to be fun. It _was_ fun.

“See, Ed,” Oswald snatched his attention again, “The trouble with talking to projections of your psyche–and you of all people should know this–is that they know everything you know. Including the things you’re trying not to know.” Oswald disappeared and reappeared on his right side, leaning in close. “Gordon can’t help you. No one can. Face the truth.”

Oswald finally left his side and Ed breathed a sigh at being left to watch the chess matches alone.

♠ ♠ ♠

“You know, it’s rude to stare.”

“I don’t think that applies to art.” Ed’s river had been sucked dry, gasping fish bloating in the river bed, black and greasy rock slippery as he tried to make it to the shore. “In fact, I’d say it’s ruder not to stare.” He felt something of a hollowness beneath his ribs, tucked between his lungs. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“You summoned me, remember?” There were stalactites in Oswald’s dripping smile.

“Did I?” He sighed. “I suppose I did.”

Oswald rolled his eyes. “Really, Ed? Next you’ll be asking me if you’re really awake, going by the fog in your eyes.”

Ed licked his lips and pointed to his likeness in the picture. “Why did you do this?”

Not-Oswald grinned. “Because it’s funny.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Oh, please, that–” Oswald jabbed the painting with one dripping finger, “–Is hilarious.”

“Stop it,” Ed hissed, turning to him. “You did it to make a fool out of me, and I know it. It’s _demeaning_. Damaging. A tiny caricature in the background. Your side-piece.”

“ _My_ side-piece?” Oswald raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“You, him, it’s all the same,” Ed spat.

“Oh, of course, it is,” Oswald bit. “Tell me, Edward, what’s really on your mind?”

Ed yelled, “Why the hell did you make–”

No.

Sleep was for dead people and Ed didn’t want to do this.

“Hope you don’t mind me ruining this.” Ed closed his eyes and inhaled. “Because I’m going to.”

Oswald clicked his tongue. “Have at it, my friend. But it won’t change anything.” And he was gone.

Ed sprayed a question mark over his face and wished he could forget it all.

♠ ♠ ♠

In the dead of night, Ed pulled a hood over Teddy Thirio’s head and smiled. He’d made inquiries into Thirio’s hidden life; namely his dealings with the production of low grade synthetic cannabis. The man was responsible for a string of deaths throughout the state, and a few out of as well.

Ed had pulled out his old crowbar just for the occasion. And when Thirio’s skull was crushed-in and leaking, Ed used a kitchen knife to cut along his side. Bullock’s badge would fit just inside. Perfect.

♠ ♠ ♠

“The paper, sir.” The maid took him by surprise, appearing from thin air.

“Yes, put it over there,” He instructed.

“I’ll be off now.”

“Right.” He was smiling and he knew it. Soon Foxy should be discovering Teddy Thirio, asking Dr. Thompkins to cut him open so sweetly. Oh, what fun.

He opened up the paper. “CHECKMATE” it screamed at him. “The Chess Killer electrifies the competition.” How delightful. He turned to the next page. 

“Mayor still missing.” Ed swallowed. “How long must we wait for his return?”

Ed felt a ringing in his ears, leaking into his brain, surrounding his head. He dipped into his pocket, pulled out that box, snatched up a pill and pushed it between his teeth. Blood rushed through his ears and the world began to drip.

“Hello, again.”

“Give me that,” Oswald snapped, taking the newspaper from him. “The Chess Killer. How _terrifying_.” He dropped the paper like it was covered in ants. “How will anyone sleep knowing the _Chess Killer_ is on the loose?”

Ed smiled, feeling better at last. “It’s just a name dreamed up by some hack. Today will change everything.”

“This is a mistake–what you’re doing,” Not-Oswald warned him, hands pressed on the table insistently.

Ed pursed his lips. “I don’t recall asking you.”

“I showed you how to be Ed Nygma, a man who could run the underworld and operate in plain sight. What you are planning is _madness_ ,” Oswald’s blue lips spat.

“No.” Ed pushed into his space, daring. “It’s a way forward. And the fact that it scares you gives me all the confirmation I need.” This was it. His ticket to freedom. He would shed the dead weight of Oswald’s corpse once and for all.

“Ed, you are not sleeping.” _72 hours? Maybe more?_ “You are taking drugs.” _He needed them, they helped him._ “You are having a conversation with your dead friend.” _Dead, dead, dead._ “Just admit that you are lost without me or you will destroy everything!”

Ed grit his teeth as he pulled on his suit jacket; it was time. “I have to go.”

A scratched record shredded his ears and he looked up to see Oswald bathed in red light, dressed in tails with a top hat.

“What are you doing?”

Oswald smiled and sang. “He’s fierce in my dreams, seizing my guts. He floats me with dread.” 

Ed pressed his fingers up beneath his glasses and when that didn’t work, took them off all together. Still Oswald’s image remained.

“Soaked in soul, he swims in my eyes by the bed.” Oswald removed his tophat and stroked around the rim, lowering his eyelashes. 

Ed couldn’t let this affect him–couldn’t allow himself to stray. He was so close to coming through it; he knew. Tonight would change things. Tomorrow would bring a new Edward and a new name. 

“Pour myself over him,” He replaced his glasses, suffering through the ringing in his ears, “Moon spilling in…” Blinked, breathed, he was in control. “And I wake up…” Oswald replaced his tophat and smiled, “Alone.”

“ENOUGH!” Ed slammed his hands down on the table and the image stopped. He couldn’t let it go on, couldn’t let Oswald remove his clothes and reel him in again. “I admit that killing you killed a part of me! But I will find a way forward no matter the cost!” He let his feet embed themselves in this place and knew that he would not return, “I will be born anew!” He pointed a shaking finger at him. “And I will leave you behind.”

“Penguin saw you, Ed,” Not-Oswald spat, and Ed had to go, couldn’t listen to this anymore. “He was the only one. He made you! There is no Ed Nygma without–”

Ed slammed the door, leaning against it to breathe. _Killing you killed a part of me,_ he’d said. And he’d meant it. Oh dear, he’d meant it.

♠ ♠ ♠

“Gotham bridge is falling down,” Ed dragged the chair over a nail and Bullock’s lax body jolted. “Falling down,” He couldn’t have predicted how heavy the man would be, straining his arms as he pulled the chair into the supply closet. “Falling down.” He knotted the rope around Harvey, binding his arms and legs. “Gotham Bridge is falling down.” He pressed a thick piece of duct tape over his mouth–a precaution should he wake. “My fair–” He grinned, “–Harvey.” Bullock nodded in his sleep.

He quietly closed the cupboard and checked his watch. _Curtaincall, Edward Nygma, time for your place onstage!_ He laughed into his hand, thrills shaking him. Oh, it was really happening. From caterpillar to butterfly once more.

_Killing you killed a part of me._

He shook the thought away and made his way downstairs. He walked through the halls, podium calling him until he was onstage, smiling widely at the rows of well-dressed men and women. Very well-dressed indeed. An image of Oswald dressed in police garb swam through his mind and he had to shoot it away.

Ready to begin, he tapped heavily on the microphone, leaning in. A smirk curled his lips. 

“Hello, cadets,” he purred. “My name is Edward Nygma. Captain Bullock’s…” he couldn’t help but grin, “Tied up.” He glanced around at the cadets. “What a day. Eh? You all look just _dandy_ in your uniforms.” He turned to the side proudly, gesturing to his blazing green suit. “How do I look?” _Caterpillar to butterfly._

Muffled murmurs sounded throughout the room and Ed chuckled, leaning in again. “I have one question for all of you:” he licked his lips, anticipation building, “Light as a feather, yet no man can hold it long.” Leaned in closer, lips touching the mic, “What am I?”

The cadets mumbled amongst themselves but no answer came forth.

“Well, no future Commissioners here.” He sighed, exasperated, “The answer is…” With a grin, he threw his smoke bomb, watched the people part like the red sea. “...Your breath.”

♠ ♠ ♠

“Hey, Ed.” Ed looked up from his phone, shooting Detective Bullock a glance. “How’s the weather out in _**crazy town?**_ ”

“Keep your cool, Bullock.” He slipped his phone back into his pocket. “It would be an awful shame if the antidote were to shatter.” He tapped the vial, feeling rather gleeful.

“You’re a psycho, Nygma!”

“You know what,” Ed grabbed Bullock’s chin to replace the strip of duct tape, “No more _talking_ for you!”

He hadn’t been waiting long before Ed heard the sound of leather soles on the stairs below, climbing higher and higher, closer and closer.

He leaned over the stairwell as Lucius Fox’s head came into view. “Well, look who it is!” He ripped the gun from his pocket, pointing it at him. “I’m _so_ glad you decided to play!

“Are you okay, Harvey?” Foxy asked. _Boring_. Especially when there was so much fun to be had!

“Look at him!” Ed gestured wildly to his captive audience, “He’s fine!”

“I wanna hear Harvey say he’s okay,” Foxy conditioned. Oh, so serious. How disappointing. Ed knew a man with wings and a limp who would be ever-so interesting in a moment like this

With a sigh, he removed the tape over Bullock’s mouth with a _rip._

“Don’t try to outsmart this lunatic, Lucius!” Harvey yelled. “Cadets lives are at stake.” Of course, that was what _he_ thought.

“Let’s begin,” Fox agreed, meeting his eye.

“Wonderful,” Ed grinned. Trust Foxy to have a little sense. “I will give you three riddles. For every riddle you get wrong–” Ed gasped dramatically, pulling out his pocket knife, “I cut a rope. You get three wrong?” He pointed the knife at Bullock’s chest. “And this excuse for a higher primate and the antidote,” He tapped the vial, “Round his neck…” He whistled a plummeting sound, “Fall over the ledge.” He turned back to Fox. “Am I clear?”

Foxy nodded. “And if I get them right?”

“Everyone lives!” He declared to the heavens. “Even if you get just one! Can’t say fairer than that.”

Foxy licked his lips and nodded again. “Okay.”

Ed retracted his knife. “Wonderful!” He drummed against the stair rail excitedly. _What a game to be had._ He felt like the host of a famous quiz show, a set of cards in his hands, the answers echoed in his mind. “First riddle: I can fill a room or just one heart. Others can have me, but I cannot be shared. What am I?”

_Loneliness can make some people do terrible things._

“The answer’s love,” Fox stated.

_One cannot deny–_

“What?” Ed hissed. _One cannot deny–_ “ _No_. _**NO!**_ The–” _One cannot deny–_ “The answer is _loneliness._ ” _One cannot deny–_ “How do you not know that?!”

He carried his bones to the rope, sawing at the strands. 

_“Loneliness? Is that what you call it?”_

The rope snapped and Ed stalked back to Harvey, ignoring his whimpering.

“Ask me another,” Foxy urged.

Yes. Yes, another. “Okay. Second riddle,” Ed clapped his hands loudly, “I can be a member of a group but can never blend in. What am I?”

“A snowflake.” Fox’s stern stare, the dripping water running down Ed’s sleeves, pooling at the ends.

_“I’m just here to watch you make a fool of yourself, apparently.”_

“A sno–” 

_“I suppose I should have expected that your next idea would be as barbaric as your first.”_

Ed flinched. “ _ **NO!**_ ” 

_“You are so lost.”_

“No! No! No!” Ed banged his fist against the banister, tried to let the pain ground him in the real. 

_“Say something.”_

“The answer is an individual,” Ed spat, turning to cut the wretched rope.

“Wait!” Fox halted him and he was forced to turn back. “Snowflake is also a suitable answer; no two are alike, making them by definition individuals.” _You cannot have one without the other._ “Therefore an answer befitting your riddle.”

“Okay, I don’t think you _grasp,_ ” he flicked open his pocket knife, gritting his teeth, “–How this works. You have to give _my_ answer.” He went and cut the second rope. Bullock moaned and begged but Ed ignored it all.

_“I am the only one in the world who truly sees you as you are. Who you can still become.”_

“Oswald was right,” he hissed to himself. _The only one._ “He’s the only one–” 

_“The cold-blooded murder of someone you **love**.”_

Ed snatched the gun from his pocket, “No.” _I don’t love you._

He stalked back to the railing, descending the stairs toward Foxy. “It’s just _you_.” He pressed the tip between Foxy’s eyes, watched how _still_ he became when faced with certain death. “You aren’t a good enough enemy!” His finger pressed against the trigger, and he was about to pull it, he would. His hand rattled.

_“Say something.”_

“No.” He stepped back to breathe, pulling away. “No, no.” He retreated up the stairs, pushing his fingers into his eye. Oswald’s blood slid from his hands, dripping on the marble below. “No: Three riddles, three answers. Those are the rules, Ed.” The rules were important, always important. 

Blood dripped. 

“Okay,” he clapped his scarlet hands, “Final riddle: I feel your every move, I know your every thought. I’m with you from birth and I’ll see you rot.” _Rot, rot, rot, down in the riverbed so deep. No sky above the sludge, just the darkness._ “What am I?”

_**You drowned me, Ed, and I‘ll drown you right back.** _

“What did you do, Ed?” Ed choked on the watery sludge in his throat. “What did y– What happened to Penguin?” Ed flinched, retreated, pushed his fingers into his eyes. _You think you can become someone new, but you can’t!_ “Something happened, didn’t it?” _I made you who you are. You can’t do this without me._ Ed’s hands shook where they pressed into his eyes. “Did you kill him?” Ed straightened himself and breathed the salty. metallic air. “You did, didn’t you?”

“I feel you every thought–” 

_“You can’t do this.”_

“I feel your every move, I know your every thought.” Ed forced it through his teeth. “I’m with you from birth and I’ll see you rot. What am I?”

“A reflection.”

And suddenly, like that vice giving away, he could breath. Oh god, he could _breathe_.

“Correct.”

♠ ♠ ♠

“So, we’re just sitting here?”

Ed nodded, the hair on the back of his head brushing the headrest. “I wanted to watch the sunrise.” Out on the horizon, touches of pink and orange floated in the air, oil-spill in the sky. He brushed his gloved fingers over the steering wheel.

“Ready to reenact everything?” Oswald asked. “Do you want me to stand in place, let you point that gun while I pretend to fall in?”

“You know that isn’t what I want,” Ed sighed.

“But do you regret it?”

“I’m not sure.” 

_What always comes too late?_

Out over the pier, the gulls gathered together, sharing in the warmth created by the sun that peeked its face over the horizon. “But there’s nothing I can do to bring you back–bring him back, I mean. The real Oswald. So, I must say goodbye.”

Not-Oswald’s lips twisted in the rearview mirror. “If you say so.”

“You know, I’ve been holding onto you for a long time,” Ed swallowed. “Keeping you with me. And my search for a teacher or an enemy… I just couldn’t let you go.”

“And now?”

“I have to let you go, Oswald.” Ed leant his forehead against the steering wheel, rocking it back and forth. “I can’t go on walking into the Manor, pretending you’re there. Not when it’s not real.”

“How progressive of you.” Not-Oswald rolled those sea-glass eyes. Possibly for the last time. “Looks like little Eddie is all grown up.”

“I have grown,” Ed told him. “I know who I am and I know how to be him. Without you.”

“Then let’s get going,” Oswald bolstered. “Your car smells funny. I think I prefer the birdshit.”

Ed found himself smiling as he opened the car door.

Out on the pier, the seagulls screeched and flew overhead. The sun rose steadily higher into the cloak of clouds the forever cover the city. Grey seeped through the sky, and the river reflected it back at Ed. It wasn’t raining, but perhaps it would later. And some other poor sap might be forced to his knees with a gun in his hair. But for now, it was just Ed, the gulls, and the apparition beside him.

“I’ve always loved the view from here,” he said, the soft breeze trailing his words away.

“Not really a fan.” Oswald bit. “You understand why.”

Ed sighed and turned to him. It was time. The sun had risen and he would be gone and changed by the time it would set. “I want you to know that our friendship meant something to me.” Moments in the apartment, days during the campaign. They had talked, they were close. Ed had found his voice. “I cared about you.” _I’d do anything for you._ “And I miss you.”

“Gee, almost makes up for being dead,” Oswald proclaimed. Ed nodded. Perhaps the real Oswald would say something different, scorching and unpredictable, but this wasn’t the real Oswald. “You do know the entire GCPD is hunting you.”

Ed smiled. “Yes.” A whole team of officers making _chase_ , cat and mouse. Soon the whole city would know him by name.

“Well, not to burst your bubble but, wanted or not, no one is going to be afraid of _‘the riddler’_.”

The words didn’t phase him. His hallucination was voicing his own doubts, but he was past that now. “Maybe not yet. But they will be.” 

And now it really was time. He walked to the edge and knelt on his knee, imagining himself as a type of prince with a proposal on his lips. Instead, he removed the pillbox from his pocket, opening the lid. They’d helped him for a time, but he couldn’t go on with it. Not anymore. Breathing in deep, he leaned out and tipped it over, releasing the Kraken back to its home. The river swallowed all his sins one more time. Ed thanked it and stood. He was alone on the pier now. Just him and the gulls.

“Goodbye, Oswald.”

He left him there, along with that man, Ed Nygma. From a jittery loser to a powerful man, he was laid to rest here.

And the Riddler walked off into Gotham. Not a deadman’s city anymore. Only his.


	3. To Make a Man Undead

Riddler adjusted his cufflinks, checking his hat in the mirror. He was stalling, really. He was too tired to face the Queen of Hearts and the two tweedles. The hot shower and four-hour sleep hadn’t done much to wash away the week he’d had.

He recalled the steel cage, walls clasped like hands around him; a prison with nothing but finger bars and loneliness as he was made silent canary until he'd snuck a poison dart from a guard pocket and fox-ran to this hole.

No matter. He’d been through worse. And although he wasn’t the most physically able, the element of surprise meant he’d gotten away with only bruises and a few flesh wounds to speak of.

He should’ve gone in by now. It was midday already, and they’d all be up. Too early for any patrons to crowd his way either. Perhaps he was feeling a little ashamed. He was so sure that he’d get the true answer to his riddle, but instead… Well, enough said. It was time to enact the next stage.

“Where the hell have you been?”

A long story, of course, but he told it.

“A poison dart?” Tabitha raised her eyebrow. “Really?”

“Just a matter of choosing my moment,” he confirmed.

“Did you at least find out something useful?” Barbara sighed, relaxing back into her throne.

Riddler pursed his lips but continued, “I did. The answer to a question we were all asking: Who controls Gotham? It’s an organization calling themselves the Court of Owls.”

“And?” Barbara demanded, “Who are they? What do they want?”

“Well, unfortunately...” he tutted. Miss Queen was getting on his nerves again, “My interaction was limited to a woman named Kathryn, who had a…” he tilted his head, “Stern updo. But I can tell you there’s little interest in the underworld.”

“I don’t care,” Barbara snapped. “I have worked too hard to get to the top only to find yet _another_ tier above me.”

Riddler forced his lips into a tight smile. “Of course.”

“So, _work on it_ ,” She implored. “Use that big brain of yours for something.”

“And what do you hope to achieve?”

“Ed,” she simpered, leaning forward in her seat, flashing her eyes at him. “You turned the most notorious criminal in this city into the Mayor of Gotham. I’m sure you can think of something.”

“Don’t… don’t mention Oswald.”

“Why?” Barbara cocked her head. “You miss him?”

It’d been four months and eighteen days. “No. But don’t mention him.”

♠ ♠ ♠

The virus spread overnight and Riddler found himself watching his city imploding on itself.

“Isn’t it glorious?” The red queen cackled beside him.

“Yes, glorious.” If Oswald had been here, he’d be outraged. _This is my city, Edward!_ He’d spitfire. _How dare they let it burn._

It was times like these he was reminded of him–when something wasn’t quite right in the world without him.

“Now, Eddie…” Barbara walked her fingers across his shoulders, leaning on him with a frightening grin. “What are we going to do?”

♠ ♠ ♠

“You sure about this, Eddie?”

“According to my sources, Fish Mooney and the GCPD are scrambling to recover the antidote to this virus. But Fish lost Hugo Strange, her bargaining chip. Safe to say, she has no cards to play. Strange designed the antidote and now he’s in GCPD custody, setting up a lab. But they are missing one very, very important element.” Riddler nodded to Mr. Jervis Tetch, his twitchy eyes looking this way and that while his chains rattled. “So, yes,” he continued, “I am sure that this bozo is the key to controlling Gotham.”

“Are you my saviours?” Tetch asked excitedly. “Are you the ones to set me free?” He reminded Riddler of his own time in Arkham, listening to the babbles of idiots and madmen.

“Not exactly.” Barbara grinned. “Now, Ed. Let’s make Gotham beg.”

♠ ♠ ♠

The list was long and demanded half the city, but Barbara was happy and Riddler felt as if he were on the winning side again.

“Now, we wait,” Barbara declared freely, leaning against the bar.

“Right.” The telephone sat in front of them, ready for the city’s call.

“Cheer up, Nygma, have a drink.” Barbara lifted her cocktail towards him.

Riddler sighed. “Why not?” He drummed his fingers on the bar. “How about a grasshopper?”

Barbara smirked. “Of course.” She turned to order from the bartender. 

In the corner, Tweedledee and Tweedledum sat locked in conversations, whispering treacherous secrets of possible mutiny. Riddler knew it was likely they were on the edge of trying something, although why it was taking them so long to pick up the sword, he couldn’t say. 

_Ring! Ring!_

All other heads turned to the telephone, but his hand went to his vibrating pocket, pulling out his phone.

“Hello?”

“Is this Edward Nygma?” A voice he didn’t recognise asked.

He frowned. “Who is this? How did you get this number?”

“Mr. Nygma, I work for the GCPD. I need to talk to you about the former Mayor and your friend, Mr. Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot.”

Riddler scoffed, watching Barbara’s puzzled face. “The city is falling apart and you want to talk to me about Oswald?”

The bartender nodded to him, sliding his drink over. He took a sip.

“You see, Mr. Nygma, early this morning, the coast guard found a body.”

The drink slipped from his fingers and Riddler’s legs walked him out of the room, away from Barbara’s indignation and the Tweedle’s rolled eyes. The officer jabbered in his ear but Ed only had one question.

“When can I see him?”

♠ ♠ ♠

The morgue had always been a dreary place. There was a time when Ed had lit it up with an orchestra, let the sun pour in and play off sunken ribs and greyed out eyes. Today, it was only cloudy.

“Where’s Lee?”

“Out.” The mortician had his arms crossed, head hung like he was struggling to keep it on his shoulders.

“What about Mr. Fox?” Ed felt an itch on his arms and without thought, he scratched.

The mortician shrugged. “Dunno.” Ed shivered. It was cold here. “You know I can call someone if you can’t–”

“I’m fine,” he growled. He was the Riddler, for goodness sake. He could survive anything. “Can I remove the sheet?”

“Yes, but before you do, you should know that the body’s quite–”

Ed removed the sheet and stumbled away to the shadows.

“–Disfigured.” The mortician sighed.

“Wh-where are his hands a-and–” Ed gagged on a mouthful of salt, stomach roiling. “Feet?”

“The Mayor was submerged in the water for quite a long time, Mr. Nygma. It may have slowed the decomposition down, but as you can see…”

“His eyes–” All the air in the room was tainted, each breath a lungful of death. Ed’s stomach raged like the sea.

“Possibly eaten. Maybe by fish or the gulls. Not much down in Gotham waters.”

He shook his head, placing a hand over his mouth. “This can’t be real.”

“I wish it wasn’t. If only to spare my–” He tipped over and let it all come out over the floor, his shoes squelching in the yellowish piles of stomach acid and sparse food. “–Stomach.”

“S-s-sorry.” Ed began to shiver, clutching his arms. “His-s-s… His-s-s s-skin–”

“Don’t move, I’ll get the mop.” The mortician walked to the cupboard.

“His-s-s s-skin is-s b-black.”

“What was that?” The mortician walked back with a mop, a bucket and two cloths.

“His-s s-skin,” Ed forced out.

“Oh, yes.” The mortician gestured around, “Black near the extremities, but you’ll see it’s greener around the torso–oh, except around the wound. Probably from a bullet, but hard to tell.”

Ed shook his head. His throat was burning and his legs were wobbling. “He used to be beautiful.”

“Really?” The mortician gave him an odd look before plunging the mop head into the bucket. “I heard you two were together. Were you gonna marry him?”

“I won’t say that,” Ed was in an empty fishbowl, gasping. “But there was a time when I thought we’d be together forever.”

“That’s sweet.” The mortician ran the mop between his feet. “You can step back now, take a seat on that stool.”

“I really am sorry.”

“Happens more often than you’d think, honest. Probably should’ve expected it, him looking as cut-up as this.” He finished the mopping up, walking over with a wet cloth. “Now, can you do this or should I?”

“I can.” Ed took the cloth and ran it over his shoes, washing away the muck. “What happens now?”

“With the body you mean?” Ed nodded. “Well, that’s up to you, really. Although I’d recommend cremation. Might be the least off-putting.”

“Right.” Ed wouldn’t burn Oswald’s body. “Right.”

“So, what do you want to do?” 

Ed wanted to go back to a time when the thought of Oswald’s bloated body on a slab was as absurd as him flying.

“Just… please keep him here for now. I’ll make arrangements…”

“I understand.” The mortician nodded. “Have a pleasant day, Mr. Nygma.”

Ed’s tongue still tasted like stomach-acid, so he made his way up to the men’s washroom, facing the familiar hand basin and mirror with momentary nostalgia. He cupped his hands beneath the tap, washing out his mouth slowly before running his wet hands over his face, shutting his eyes.

_Oswald’s garish, bloated body lying cold on a metal slab._

“Stop.”

Ed looked up, staring into his own eyes squinting back at him. “What?”

“Wallowing will do you no good, Eddie. I’d hate for us to revisit the pity party that was last month,” the mirror spat. “Or, Lord knows, our youth.”

“What would you suggest, then?” Ed gripped the edge of the sink, hanging onto the Earth as it hurtled around the sun, threatening to throw him off. “I can’t just put on my hat and walk away like everything’s fine.”

“Too bad Fish Mooney isn’t on our team,” The reflection snorted, leaning against the mirror’s edge. “She knows a thing or two about rising from the grave.”

Ed lifted his head from the stocks. “She does, doesn’t she?”

“Yeah,” The reflection narrowed its eyes. “That’s what I said.”

“Oh dear.” Ed shook his head, looking down at his trembling hands still gripping the sink. “I think I have an idea.”

“Nygma?” The voice came from somewhere else; behind. “ _Nygma?!_ ”

Ed went to turn but was flung around instead, pushed up against solid metal with a snarl from none other than Jim Gordon himself.

“What the _hell_ are you doing in my precinct?” Jim’s face was contorted into a wolf's attack, his eyes red-rung, veins popping out.

“I just came to see Oswald, Detective, I swear,” Ed babbled, feeling quite winded. Jim twiched, growling beneath his breath and Ed leaned forward. There was something strange about him… familiar yet foreign at the same time… The virus. “You have the virus!”

“Shut up!” Jim slammed him against the lockers again and Ed’s head span wonderfully.

“How does it feel? Do you like it? How in control do you feel at this stage? How long have you had it? How quickly have you progressed? On a scale from one to ten, how homicidal do you f–”

“I said _**shut up!**_ ” Jim hurled him across the room and Ed landed on his side with an indelicate _crunch!_ Heavy footsteps pounded toward him and Ed curled in on himself, covering his head as he held his breath and braced himself.

The door screeched open and Ed was saved.

“Jim? Jim, buddy, you gotta calm down…” Harvey Bullock’s less than calming voice echoed through the room.

“Is he human again?” Ed called.

“I’m _fine_ ,” the detective growled.

“Your tone fails to fill me with confidence, Jimbo.” He hesitantly unfurled himself, adjusting the perch of his glasses as he stood. Jim still looked seconds away from throttling him, held back only by Bullock’s hand on his shoulder.

“I know you’re pissed, I am too, partner, but there are more important things going on than beating Nygma’s sorry ass.” Harvey insisted.

“Harvey, don’t you see?” Jim demanded through his teeth. “Nygma has contact with Barbara!” Watching the detectives closely, Ed began to creep around the edge of the room, heading for the door. “She wants to bankrupt the whole city, and he–” Jim suddenly went still, and Ed was forced to stop too, halfway to the door. “You know where he is, don’t you?”

For a beat, no one did anything.

“Oh dear.”

And suddenly Ed was running for the door, looking over his shoulder to see the empty caverns in Jim’s eyes – only to slam head-first into the wall.

“Oh dear.” He picked himself up, aiming for the door again, but Jim blocked his way.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

“Wow, Jimbo, the virus really brings out the cliché in your accent, doesn’t it?” Ed sneered at him.

“Come on, Ed, I’ll take you to holding.” Bullock sighed behind him, and Ed allowed his hands to be restrained. 

“No, screw that!” Suddenly Ed’s head was connecting with the wall and the room was getting darker. “Where the hell is Tetch?!” His head connected with the wall again and he felt his stomach lurch. His feet weren’t on the ground anymore. Maybe he was flying. Or maybe he was on a merry-go-round, like when he was a child and snuck out to the fair, jumping onto the ride when the ticket holder wasn’t looking. He went in endless circles, the wind catching his hair, and he had flown for the first time in his life. The world blurred and it was perfect.

“Goddammit, Ed!” The wall slammed against him again, and this time all he saw were ravens and porcelain and demon kisses and a smile that would swallow him whole.

“Oswald?”

“Hey, now, Jim, let him catch his breath at least.” Ed smiled, feeling something trickling down his neck. “Goddammit, he’s bleeding.”

He laughed for some reason. Oswald’s skin was bleeding green, flesh bloating before him. His hands rotted away, his eyes scooping out.

“Ed, just tell us where Barbara is keeping Tetch,” Oswald demanded in a very rough voice. The water must’ve clogged his throat.

“Will you let me go?” He asked him. “I can’t have you following me anymore.”

“Fine,” Oswald’s head went slack, falling forward from his shoulders. “Where is he?”

Ed felt the water slip into his ears. “Jervis Tetch is being held in a warehouse on the dock. Shed number 385.”

Oswald started sinking away.

“Should we find someone to check for concussion?”

“Who cares? He’ll survive.”

Ed blinked several times and the shapes before his eyes morphed and changed until he saw the detectives walking away from him. “Oh dear.” Barbara would _not_ be pleased.

With a heavy sigh, he fetched his phone from his pocket.

“Barbara?”

“Nygma? Where’ve you been?”

Ed bit his lip, bouncing his leg. “You, ahem, you may want to move Tetch from the warehouse. Preferably immediately.”

“What the hell did you do Nygma?!”

He winced. “I better be going. Ta-ta for now.”

“Nygma, you son of a–” _Click._

♠ ♠ ♠

Ed grabbed his things and ran. There were still unopened safe houses left by that deadman scattered around the city; little havens from Barbara’s prying eyes.

All he needed was a ceiling and a bed and he found both in a rundown flat in the middle of the city–hiding in plain sight just like he was taught.

He shoved an empty bookcase in front of the door and persuaded the faded, dusty sheets to keep the cold out for the night. He fell asleep beneath the whining pipes and peeling paint.

In his sleep, he had a visitor who made the ceiling grow too tall and the edges of his vision sink into the dark.

“Oswald?”

The visitor’s lips pulled back to reveal a black hole. “ **A̷̮ṟ̴̚ḙ̸̏n̵̬͊'̷̳͠t̷͙͆ ̷̞͑I̶̡͆ ̴̔͜p̴̝͝ȑ̵̡e̶͓̐t̶̪̒t̶̪͝i̶̦̿e̸͕̊s̵̼̆t̸͙̑ ̵͙͐n̵̨͐o̵͚̕w̷͐͜?** ” The dark pits of his eyes gleamed slick with sewer waste. Green oozed out of his sleeves as he held up his cut off wrists. “ **O̴̜̓r̷̻̀ ̵͔̊ḋ̸̝ǒ̵͔n̸̻͝'̶̛̠t̶̺̊ ̸̯̓ÿ̷̧ō̴̹u̶͓͠ ̵̩l̴͖͘i̷̾ͅk̷̕ͅë̶̜ ̶̗̉m̷̠̐e̶̼ ̷̹̍ļ̸͠i̸̱̚k̴͇̊e̶̯͆ ̶̮̇t̵̛͖h̶̯̀i̸̲̔s̸̮̕**?”

Ed gulped. “Change back.”

Oswald’s darkened lips pouted. “ **I̵̼͂ ̵̟t̴̛̟h̴̞͝o̵͕̔u̵̯͝g̶͘ͅḣ̴̡t̷̢͝ ̶̘͝ẗ̴̺́ḧ̷̹i̴̖̊s̷̯̍ ̷̝͋w̶̟̋ả̶͚s̶̥̀ ̵̟͋h̷̥̔o̶̦̍w̵͈̚ ̸̟̍ÿ̵́͜ǒ̷̳u̷͔̿ ̸͇w̵̯͠ā̵͔n̷̪̈ţ̸̋e̸̛̙d̵̢̎ ̸̟͠m̷̜̐ḙ̸͝**.” His bones lifted and sank. “ **O̸̥̿h̷̖͂ ̷̨̒w̶̜͘e̵̯͆l̷̦͗l̶͇͌**.” In a blink, he was the man he knew again. 

“Oh, thank god.”

“No, thank _me!_ ” Not-Oswald snapped, pulling him in by the collar until they were so close Oswald’s eyes were blurry. “Aren't I _your_ immortal? I live on for you.”

“You don’t live at all.” Ed felt flattened into 2D, the shapes in his eyes dancing without him.

“And whose fault is that?” He felt teeth scraping his arm as Not-Oswald clutched him close. “You killed me! If you want me alive, do it yourself.”

Ed rattled his head. His arms were picnic blankets shaking off grass and dirt. “I can’t do anything. You’re dead. Anything else would be impossible.”

Not-Oswald suddenly pulled away, turning into the shadows, gathering the dark around him like storm clouds. “Why am I here, Eddie? It's been so long.”

“Because you’re dead.”

Oswald turned around slashing his tail and hissing serpently, eyes glowing in the dark. “I’ve been dead for months, been rotting in the river, wasting away because of you. You put me there, you wanted me there, it’s _**your f̶̧̲̠̌̈́̊͝a̸̼͑ư̵͕̿͝l̷̜̘̉̀̽̓͜t̴̘̠̗͆̈́̒!**_ ” 

“I know. It was my fault.” He shook his head. “But I’ve changed my mind.”

“What?” The lights scattered, refracted, colours swinging together and apart.

“I don’t want you to be dead.” He shrugged. “I miss you.”

“Oh yes?” Walking around, circling like a predator, tapping and dripping and dragging even though Ed couldn’t quite see his feet moving at all. “Which me do you miss the most, then? The one who worked with you on the Mayor campaign or the one who killed Isabella?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“A question for an idiot which is what you are if you think that those two versions of me could ever be separated.” Not-Oswald stepped forward, a threat in his heel. “I am the same man you shot. And the same man who wore your pyjamas. And the same man who would do anything to keep you.”

Ed grit his teeth. “And your point is?”

“You don’t miss me. You’re just sick of not having anyone intelligent to talk to.”

“I do miss you!” He was indignant, sure. “I have this feeling and it’s killing me that you’re gone and just other things.”

“Prove it.” Oswald stepped forward. “Prove that you miss me.”

Resolve rested its palms on his shoulders, settling in. “I will.” He walked away, searching the room for an exit. “How do I get out of here? I need to wake up?”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to get him back. The real him.”

“Fine, close your eyes.” He obeyed. “Just remember what it feels like to be awake.” Lights glowing, coming closer. 

Still, in the darkness, he heard the whisper. “F̷̘̋o̴͇͑r̴͚̀g̷̨͝i̶̙͂v̷̝̕e̸̥ ̴̥̊m̵͖̈́e̷̡̓.”

♠ ♠ ♠

“Hello, sir. How can I help you?”

“I’m looking for storage area 37b. Which floor is that?” he asked, smiling charmingly.

“Fourth floor, section B. There’ll be a sign pointing it out.” She pointed across the hall. “You can take the elevator straight up.”

“Thank you.” Ed nodded and turned away, hurrying to press the button. The elevator doors opened and he shuffled inside.

“A̸r̷e̸ ̴y̷o̴u̵ ̶s̷u̴r̶e̷ ̷a̵b̵o̷u̶t̸ ̵t̴h̴i̵s̶?” His ears crackled and he glared at the image beside him. 

“I am sure. I haven't been this sure about anything in a long time.” There was some kind of torture in it; having this thing follow him around. A constant reminder of the idiotic mistake he’d made. And the one he hoped to rectify.

“I̸'̴m̶ ̷j̵u̷s̶t̵ ̵s̷a̵y̴i̸n̶g̴,” the deadman sighed, “A̴c̷c̶o̶r̷d̵i̶n̵g̸ ̴t̶o̴ ̸t̵h̵e̴ ̶n̴e̶w̶s̶,̴ ̸F̵i̶s̷h̵ ̸M̵o̴o̴n̴e̷y̴ ̶i̶s̶n̶'̸t̸ ̶f̷u̵l̷l̶y̵ ̵h̸e̵r̶s̴e̷l̵f̷–”

“I don't care!” He had to use his eyelids to bleed out the image, just for a moment. “Why does she get to be alive when he doesn’t? It's not fair!” He sank back into himself as he noticed the elevator come to a stop.

“I̸ ̵j̷u̵s̶t̸ ̷m̴e̶a̴n̵;̵ ̵b̵r̷i̷n̶g̴i̴n̴g̶ ̶s̷o̶m̷e̵o̴n̷e̶ ̷b̵a̴c̴k̵ ̵f̷r̷o̶m̸ ̶t̴h̴e̷ ̸d̸e̵a̷d̸.̶ ̶A̵r̸e̸ ̴y̵o̷u̶ ̶s̸u̵r̷e̷ ̶t̷h̵e̸ ̷r̸e̵a̷l̸ ̴O̶s̷w̸a̶l̵d̸ ̸w̵o̴u̷l̷d̷ ̵w̷a̷n̶t̷ ̶t̴h̴a̵t̶?” It noticed a dribble of black blood rolling down the corner of its mouth and hastily scooped it up with its sleeve.

“What do you mean?” Ed hissed, glancing up at the sign pointing to section B. “Why shouldn't he want it?”

“S̴̝̈́̍h̶͓͗̎ṵ̵̎̐t̷̜̃ ̴͎̺̉ṳ̸̑̅p̵͙̒, ̶t̵h̷e̸r̸e̶'̷s̵ ̸t̵h̷e̴ ̷d̴o̷o̶r̷.”

♠ ♠ ♠

“W̷e̵l̶l̴,̷ ̴t̶h̸a̶t̷ ̴w̸a̷s̷ ̴e̴a̴s̵y̶.”

“If you say so.” Ed glanced out of his rearview mirror, backing up slowly.

“W̴e̷l̶l̷,̴ ̸y̴o̴u̶ ̶w̸e̶r̴e̵n̵’̴t̸ ̶c̷a̵u̸g̵h̸t̷.̸ ̷Y̸o̵u̵ ̷c̸a̴r̷r̴i̴e̸d̴ ̸t̷h̶e̶ ̸t̸h̸i̶n̶g̷ ̷o̶u̴t̴ ̷i̷n̷ ̶b̴r̸o̵a̷d̷ ̸d̷a̴y̴l̸i̴g̵h̷t̸.” He was always in the corner of Ed’s eye; so _persistent_. “D̴o̵ ̸y̴o̶u̸ ̵k̸n̵o̸w̸ ̶h̷o̸w̶ ̵i̸t̸ ̴w̶o̵r̴k̶s̶?”

“I learnt enough at Strange’s lab, thank you very much.” Ed held his breath, indicating right. He tightened his hand around the wheel and released. Tightened and released.

“W̵h̴e̵r̴e̵ ̵a̴r̴e̶ ̷y̵o̷u̶ ̵g̵o̶i̷n̵g̶ ̵t̴o̶ ̶p̶u̷t̸ ̷i̴t̵?”

“Look, would you please shut up!” Ed slammed his hand against the wheel. “I’ve put up with you all day! _Enough_ already!”

The creature smirked, slick like oil in the rearview mirror. “I̸ ̶t̷h̶o̵u̴g̸h̵t̷ ̷y̴o̸u̶ ̶w̴a̶n̶t̶e̸d̶ ̵m̷e̷ ̵b̴a̵c̷k̷.” And, at last, he left.

Ed sighed, shaking his head to clear it. Spotting a park up the street, he quickly pulled in, cutting the ignition.

“Darn it,” He whispered, rearing forward to press his forehead to the wheel. “Darn it, darn it, darn it.”

Where the hell was he going to put it?

♠ ♠ ♠

Ed stood in the doorway, observing silently. The mortician paused in his note-taking to pull a handkerchief from his pocket, roughly scrubbing it under his nose. Suddenly, he looked up and smiled.

“Hello again!”

“Yes, hello.” Ed felt his jaw click as he tried to smile. “I'm here to collect Oswald.”

“Oh, yeah?” The mortician’s eyes flicked down then up, his hand going to his pocket again. “How are ya gonna do that?” He wiped his nose.

“I have a…” Ed pursed his lips. “...Coffin of sorts. In my car.”

“Okay, then,” The mortician coughed as he stood up, leaning on his desk. “I'll go get the paperwork.”

“Right.” Ed nodded, watching him go. “Right.” Slowly, his attention was tugged to the side, his eye train-tracking over the array of metal drawers.

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

He jumped back from the noise, knocking into the table behind.

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

A nightmare. 

He searched for a weapon, knocking equipment off the table in his frantic scramble until he recalled the gun in his pocket. 

“ **Ḍ̴̛̗̪̳͒͌̕ȯ̵͈̼̬̪̈́̚ṉ̵̢̼͊̈̐̈'̸̫͋͒̽̍t̴̯̰͕̾̇̋ ̸̰̗̊͌͆̄ẽ̴̢̠̥̲̅̚͝v̸͇̘̳̌̈̇e̷͙͋̊̈́͘ṋ̸̙͎̮̅ ̶̰̤͔̯͗̐̎͗t̶͙̺͛̽͊ͅr̷̭͉̬̔͒͘y̸̫͎̋̍͌̎**.”

Ed glanced around, his breath wracking his ribs.

“ **H̶̬͐e̴͔͒'̴̪͌l̷͉͗l̷̰̓ ̶͘͜b̷͈́e̷̘̓ ̸͈̍b̸͈͑a̵̦͘c̶͇̕k̵̮̽ ̶͚̇s̶̢͑o̸̭͋o̶͕͝n̸̖͆**.̶̯̹͈͂” An empty sound from within the drawers echoed in his ears. “ **W̴̧͒h̵͇̕y̴̳̓ ̸̤̓ǹ̴̩ō̴͜ṱ̶͌ ̷͉͆f̸͎̓ḭ̸n̶̞̾i̷͔͊s̴̠̚h̴̗́ ̵̹̄y̸̬͐o̶̯͗u̷̼̕r̸̥͑ ̴̯͝p̸͖͑s̸̖͒y̸̦̆c̶̽͜h̸̼͆ô̸̰t̸̟̒i̵̭͆c̸̳͝ ̷͚͒b̸̜͌r̴̫̈́e̴̲̽a̵̼̒k̶̫̎ ̶͕̊a̴͔̎n̴̫͝d̷̙̍ ̸̬̾c̴̞͂a̷̢͆l̸̝͝m̵̟ ̵̲͗d̶͇͂o̴̧͋w̵̝̉ň̴͙ ̸̹̎f̶̻͆o̶̼̓r̵̞̔ ̸̢͊ö̴̖́ń̷̟c̸̦̕e̵̥͝?** ”

“God, Oswald.” He shook his head and watched the ceiling crumble red. “I need you to–” The door opened and Ed glanced that way. “–to be alive.”

“What was that?” The mortician’s head poked around the doorframe, a placid smile stuck in place under his bright red nose.

“Just a riddle I'm trying to solve,” Ed babbled, shifting his glasses. “Nothing you can help me with.”

“You sure?” The man grinned, yellow toothy. “I'm top at riddles.”

“Oh, are you?” Ed clenched his teeth. “You can catch me but cannot throw me. What am I?”

“Hmm…” The mortician sniffled for a moment, wiping his nose on his sleeve before he stuck his hands in his pocket and used his handkerchief instead. “Ah, you stumped me.”

“A cold.You have one. You should help me and go home.”

“I can’t,” he shrugged, “It’s only me here. Besides, it’s only a cold. Not like my friends here will catch it.” He gestured to drawers.

Ed paused, blinked, then skipped ahead. “Where’s Doctor Thompkins?”

The mortician shrugged again. “Not here, that's all I know.”

He frowned. “Right.” Funnily enough, he hoped she wasn’t dead. Although, heaven knows why. “Where do I sign?”

♠ ♠ ♠

“This is a terrible idea!”

“I’m not listening,” Ed exclaimed. He hadn’t been listening for almost an hour now as he began installing Strange’s stasis device with Oswald inside.

“Oswald will despise you for this, Edward!” He was sopping wet and shaking, a little bug on the windscreen in the periphery of his vision.

“Hmm, I hope this cable is in the right place! What do you think?!” Ed clenched his teeth and didn’t look up.

“I’m serious, Ed!” A spattered hand slammed down on the wrench. “He is going to wake up, turn over and maul your throat with his teeth.” 

“I am sure that Oswald will be all too pleased to be alive. There is no reason for him to be upset.”

“Right! Because Oswald Cobblepot has always been the picture of mercy and forgiveness!”

Ed connected the red wires up, searching for the blue. “He’s been known to forgive on occasion.”

“Not this time! You have gone too far, my friend! Better to just face the truth instead of contorting yourself to get… what exactly? Your little friend back?”

“He’s not…” Ed shook his head. “He’s not my little friend. I don’t know what he is exactly.”

“Oh, of course, I should’ve known better. You don’t kill your friends, no, you only kill your girlfriends!”

“ **WOULD YOU SHUT UP!** ” Ed’s chest heaved, his nails making imprints into the palm of his hand. “Just. Leave.”

His eyes hardened, that piercing green cutting through his skin. “You never listen, Ed.” And he was gone.

♠ ♠ ♠

Oswald was taking up too much space. 

“When are you getting to the plan, Ed?”

The one-bedroom apartment, smaller than his one on Grundy Street, could barely fit the double bed he was sleeping on. 

“What are you doing, Ed?”

He’d had to remove the dining table and fold out chairs, plus heave his bed to the corner in order to simply get the chamber inside. 

“It’s been a week, Ed.”

Oswald was taking up all the space and Ed was finding it hard to squeeze past him to do the dishes, or to get to bed, or brush his teeth. 

“A whole week, and you’ve done nothing.”

Or leave. Leaving was getting harder.

“Stop moping, and listen to me!”

Ed moved his eyes away from the sunken black spaces in Oswald’s face. “What?”

The figment, _not_ -Oswald sighed and rolled his eyes. “Uh, Ed, in case you haven’t noticed, there’s a floating corpse in your apartment.”

He frowned. “Of course, I’ve noticed.”

“And yet, you’ve done absolutely nothing about it!” His imaginary friend splashed a lot more when he was angry. How interesting. “Are you listening to me?”

“I’ve plugged him in, haven’t I? He’s not… not _rotting_ away or something.” Not anymore at least.

“You know what? It doesn’t matter.” The figment began squeezing around the chamber, smearing the glass. “You’re the one who wants him alive so badly. I don’t care either way.”

“I want to do something–I’m trying to do something!” Ed chewed on his tongue, his gaze wavering to the side. 

His eyes were so empty.

“There’s just _something_ keeping me from it.” Like a wall in his head he just couldn’t push through. He knew what he needed to do, why he needed to do it, but how to make himself do it… He was just losing time, laying on his bed, staring at a deadman.

“Have you ever considered that staring at a corpse might make you a little depressed?” Ed could feel tears welling in his eyes and he _hated_ it, scrubbed them away with fist as he ground the air between his teeth. “Or dare I say–” He glanced over at him, saw his cocked head and accusing glare, “–Heartbroken?” 

“What are you talking about?” He spat.

“I’m talking about why you are so persistent to save your dead little Penguin.” Suddenly, he was stalking toward him, captivating and dangerous, an apex predator. “He’s gone! I’m gone!” He threw his hand back at the capsule. “You have his very rotten carcass to prove it.”

“He can’t be dead! You can’t be dead, Oswald!” Ed insisted. 

Oswald’s mouth dropped open, dark water spilling from his lips. “What?!”

“I thought, at least for a while, that you could be alive.” Ed bit his tongue. “I hoped, at least.” Oswald’s eyes were saucers, more black water pouring from his sockets. “And I could go on, with that hope. But then I saw you–” Oswald’s skin darkened, turning like Ed’s stomach. “–And you were dead!” He was rotting away all over again. “I can’t go on with you being dead.”

“ **H̴̩͛a̴͙͝v̸̦̅ẻ̸͙ ̷̱͘y̵̹̽ơ̸̫u̵͉͑ ̸̺̓ḙ̵̎v̶̥͒ẽ̵͚r̸̠̋ ̶̘̊h̴̨̑e̶̼͝å̶̲r̵͇̀d̶̤̿ ̸͈͠t̴̎ͅḥ̷̂ẹ̸͘ ̶̧̍p̶̥̈h̶̯̄r̶̮̂a̴̤͠s̴̢̑e̴̬͗** ” Oswald’s hands fell to the floor, one by one, thump, thump. “ **M̷̟̍ȁ̵͕ỵ̵̇ ̶̤̄ḥ̷͘ë̴̖́ ̸̞̇r̶̠̽ę̴̚s̷̝͗t̸͚͒ ̵͉̔ì̷̦ǹ̷̰ ̷̛̦p̵̼͘e̸͔̚ả̴͚c̶͎͂ê̵̡?̸̠͒** ”

Ed’s breaths were coming quick in a galloping chase, the world spinning and craning onboard a storm-ravaged ship. Oswald wobbled where he stood, his flesh scraping away.

“Oswald.” He was shaking all over, chest aching with a shot wound from a friend under the cold morning rain. “Come back to me when you’re not spilling black on my carpet.”

Oswald’s black holes flashed blue. “ **Y̶̢̌o̸̯̕u̴̖r̵͍̈́ ̷͚̏w̴̥̓ō̵͍ř̵̞l̷̙̓d̴͔̈́ ̵̘̋i̴̡͊ś̵̢ ̵̰̋t̶̠̔u̴͔͛ŕ̸͜n̴̰i̴̹̔n̸͇͑g̵͖͒ ̶̪̈́ţ̸̂ó̶̦ ̸͚̔s̴̜̓à̸͇ņ̵̑d̵̜̍.̴̲͠** ” 

Ed fell back onto his bed, watched the ceiling like it was the sky. 

“ **E̷̞̋n̶̤͊j̷̲͝ȍ̷̻y̴̙͐ ̸̞̒s̸̥̒c̸̢̒r̷̓ͅa̵͉p̶̹͂i̵͈̇ṉ̸̾g̸͍͌ ̴͇͑u̶͙̚p̸̢͛ ̸̼͋e̸͖̾v̵̧̋e̶̺͊r̴͈̈́y̸̲̒ ̴̪̇s̶̠͘t̶̖̚i̵͖̅n̶̖̾k̸̑ͅi̶̭͆n̶̘̓g̷̜̒ ̷̰̈g̷̢͂r̵̠͝a̴͇̿ỉ̷͜n̵͔̆.̸͈͑** ”

♠ ♠ ♠

On Wednesday, Ed stepped out for a walk. 

When he came back, he had a plan.

♠ ♠ ♠

It was simple enough. Actually, it rather reminded him of something Oswald might do.

He would start at the bottom and work his way to the top, with Strange being his final tier. He couldn’t find a man like Hugo Strange overnight, by himself. He needed to talk to people, investigate, do whatever it took to find him.

At last, he had a purpose again, a sense of direction.

The Riddler was _**back!**_

♠ ♠ ♠

The key to finding Professor Strange was Fish Mooney. She was the last person known to see him, the one person who knew him better than anyone else alive.

From what Ed had gathered over the last few weeks, Fish Mooney and Barbara Kean were deep in the thick of an all-out turf war. There had been multiple accounts in the papers of gang fighting, riots, and outright anarchy.

He wondered what Tabitha and Butch were doing right now. Had Butch defected? Felt the pull of loyalty Ed was feeling right now? That attachment which never really ceased. And had Tabitha defected with him? Or had she abandoned that love and reattached herself to Barbara. Was she torn between the two? Wishing she wanted only one but couldn’t help but want the other too.

_Isabella’s waiting for a call but Oswald’s eyes are several shades of come closer and it takes more than one drink to pull away._

No, he couldn’t focus on that right now. All that mattered was finding Fish Mooney. 

It didn’t appear to be public knowledge who was loyal to whom. Perhaps no one was loyal to no one – this was Gotham after all. But that meant both parties needed loyal soldiers. And Ed was all too happy to be such a kept creature.

For a price.

♠ ♠ ♠

“The fuck are ya doin’ in’ere string-bean?” Ed withstood the stench of cheap whiskey on the bearded man’s breath, standing straight as he leered over him. “Fish’s lookin’ for men. Not stretched-out froggy-legs like you.”

“Fish Mooney is organizing this acquisition of workers, correct?”

“Didn’t I just say that?” The man scratched his beard, scrutinizing him from beneath his heavy brow. “What’re you playin’ at?”

“What does she need the workers for?” He positioned his hands beneath his chin.

“What business is that of yours?” The man sniffed.

“You, see it is my business,” Riddler explained, tipping his bowler hat, “Because I am here to offer my services.” 

The man guffawed. “I’m not paying for scrap meat. ‘Specially not know-it-all scrap meat.”

“There’s more to me than meets the eye, Mr…” Ed waved his hand.

“Spate.” The man grunted.

“Mr. Spate, indeed.” Riddler grinned. “Simply tell me this plan of yours, and I’ll see what I can do to improve it.”

Silence hung between them like wet rags as Mr. Spate’s glare grilled his skin.

“Tell ya what,” he began and Riddler sighed, “I’ll tell ya the deal if ya can find me a man for the job.”

Ed grinned, slow and sly, chest popping like sparks. “Can do.”

♠ ♠ ♠

The plan was to bomb the old west bank on Wright street. They needed five men, a pawn, and a demo expert. That’s where Ed came in.

“The worker ya got me ta hire is rubbish.” Mr. Spate was spitting over his shoulder. “But I guess boss don’t mind, s’long as the work’s done.”

“Right you are, Mr. Spate.” Ed nodded. “Now I’ve finished with this. It should slip past the guards unnoticed.”

“If you say so.” Riddler watched him head for the door, waiting for… “Oh, and when I have another job for ya, where can I find ya?” He grinned.

Bingo.

♠ ♠ ♠

It took a month before Spate let slip who he worked for. Another link on the chain. Her name was Cherry. She ran a few fighting rings with ties to Falcone around the Narrows.

“The Narrows?” Ed frowned. “Why that district?”

“She likes it, she does,” Spate grunted. “Says that’s where the best workers are.”

Hmm… “Are you certain?”

“Narrows’ folk are desperate. Do a lot for little, they do.” Ed glanced up at him to catch his eye, wondering what he’ll see there; a gleeful gleam or some kind of sadness that sinks in your gut and can’t go away.

“Right.” Glee. Of course. “Where can I find her?”

Cherry’s sat on a dark corner of a mud-caked street, neon lights buzzing through the window. Riddler ducked his head and pushed through the door. 

He waded through the wall of people reeking of alcohol and desperation, crowded around a ring in the hopes of snorting up one more hit of adrenaline before the week was out.

He detached himself from the limbs of the strung-out gremlins, making his way to the bar. The bartender cast him a glance, busy pouring out three fingers of whiskey.

“Hey,” Ed rapped his knuckles on the bar. “I'm looking for the person in charge here.”

“Right here, squirt.” The stranger had a strip of colour painted over her eyes, bleached hair that stood on end, and an air of superiority and self-assurance carried in even the smallest flick of her brow as she appraised him.

“Ah,” Ed grinned, “Miss Cherry.”

“It’s Ms,” she hissed, her tongue slashing like a snake's.

“Ms. Cherry, then.” He watched her closely. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Her lip curled slightly, eyes remaining unmoved. “What do you want, huh? Spit it out quick, I got places to be.”

“I'm Edward Nygma. I've been working for Mr. Charles Spate.”

“And?” Cherry raised a painted brow.

“I expressed an interest with him in exploring some more demanding work,” Ed lied, “And he pointed me towards you.”

“Demanding work.” She mocked. “And what was it you did for Spate again?”

“Oh, this and that,” Ed shrugged, “I'm very versatile.”

Cherry cackled. “Oh, I bet you are.” Suddenly, her hand clutched his face, fingernails guiding him forward. Rather than back down, Ed smiled, looking her in the eye.

_Watch me be the best asset you could have, Ms. Cherry._

“Huh.” She tilted her head back, regarding him curiously. “You got a little crazy in your eye, slugger.”

Ed giggled. “I suppose I do.”

“Ever stolen anything, squirt?”

“Some priceless paintings,” he recalled, “Other odds and ends, mainly valuables.”

“How ‘bout medication?” She asked, running her thumbnail over his cheekbone, “Ever stolen that?”

He had actually, back in Arkham. The other inmates were much easier to manipulate when he had full control of how doped up they were. Plus, it was advantageous to keep some of the more troublesome characters docile as could be arranged. 

However, his visit to the Asylum wasn't on his wishlist of things to share with Ms Cherry.

“There's a first time for everything,” he told her. “When do you want it done?”

“End of the week.”

He smirked. “How about Monday?”

Her eyes flashed. “Two days?”

“Uh-huh,” he purred.

“Well, well.” Cherry shook her head, the light dancing off her painted skin. “Two days and I may have to keep you.”

“Then it’s agreed.” Ed tipped his head. “We have a deal.”

“Yes,” Cherry acknowledged. “Now go see the doc. She’ll tell you what you’re looking for.”

“Doc?” He tilted his head. “Who’s that?”

“She helps out with the ring-ruins,” she gestured to the fight going on behind them. “Cleans them up, get’s them ready for a new game.”

“I see,” Ed nodded. “And she’s the one who needs the medication?”

“That’s what she says, anyway,” Cherry muttered, rolling her eyes. “You’ll find her through that door there,” she gestured to a swing door set underneath the stairs, “Go down the hallway to the end and hit a right. Can’t miss her.”

“Right.” Ed tapped his fingers on the bar and stood up. “Thank you for the conversation.”

She bared her teeth at him. “Whatever, legs. Just get the job done.”

“Of course,” he agreed, spinning in place before he headed for the door. 

The hallway was narrow and smelled musty and old, wooden walls bared and with the occasional hole. As he passed through the doorway at the end, he felt something wet drip down the back of his neck, and he hastily brushed it away, but could not get rid of the lingering cold feeling.

“Uh, hello?” He called into the room. He heard some rustling behind the large oak table situated at the far end of the room. “I’m looking for the doc.”

“Who’s been hurt?” The stranger grunted. Suddenly, she rose, her hair appearing up from behind the desk, and she turned, eyes finding his and–Oh wow.

“Lee?”

She looked different. Darker. Like something had changed in her the way something had changed in him. Had she lost someone too?

“Nygma.” Her lip curled and she rolled her eyes. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question, _doc_ ,” he clicked his tongue. “Nice get-up,” he acknowledged her tight black clothing, the dark makeup, “Guess even the Narrows is better than James Gordon, huh?”

“Is that so?” She raised an eyebrow. “And I suppose you’re here to find another person to fall in love with and spontaneously murder.”

Ed’s throat went dry. “What?”

Lee shrugged. “Heard a rumour that you killed Penguin, your boyfriend. Knowing you, it’s probably true.”

He grit his teeth, gut roiling. “You don’t know anything about it.” Lee raised her eyebrows, unconvinced. “And if I did kill Oswald, he probably deserved it.”

Lee smiled placidly, stepping towards him. “Then why do you look guilty?”

_She knows._

He glared at her, his hand going to his pocket, stroking his firearm reassuringly. “And here I was, ready and willing to help you.”

“For your own benefit, I suppose,” Lee scoffed. “Why? What is it you’re doing here?”

“Apparently I’m acquiring some medication for you, _doc_ ,” he rolled his eyes, “Per Cherry’s instruction.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Why? What’s your angle here?” 

Ed grinned. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Lee shook her head at him, a devil in her eye. “Nygma, you’re lucky I need those meds, otherwise I’d–”

“You’d what?” He laughed. “Call your ex? Indeed, how terrifying.”

“Go to hell, Nygma.”

“Give me your list of meds and I’ll happily do that.” He watched Lee turn and find her pen, her lips pursed into a frown. It struck him how similar she looked to Oswald the day Ed had first met him. How prickly they both were. Ed shook the image from his mind. “Thanks.” He snatched the list from her hand and left.

_“You know that you’re standing too close.”_

♠ ♠ ♠

The robbery was a piece of cake. A copy of the keys and he was in and out in the dead of night, taking back-row stuff that they were less likely to notice. If the theft was reported, there was no evidence he’d ever been there, no reason he could be suspected. The perfect crime.

“Delivery for Doctor Leslie Thompkins from the Riddler!” He announced, dropping the box onto her desk with a thud.

“Wow, all this?”

“Could’ve been more but I was trying to be subtle,” he explained.

“No, no, I can work with this,” she assured him, lifting up a bottle of omeprazole and examining it. “Thank you, Ed.” She looked at him.

Talk about hot and cold.

“Yes, well...” He cleared his throat. “I’d better report back to Cherry.”

“Whatever,” She grunted, going back to filtering through her box.

Ed nodded, then turned and left.

That had been strange.

Spotting Cherry on one of the platforms upstairs, Ed made his way up the staircase, hearing his footsteps echo on the cold metal.

“Ms. Cherry, a pleasure to see you again!” He tipped his hat.

“Likewise, as long as you’ve delivered,” she looked him up and down.

“In fact, I dropped the box off to the doc just now,” he informed her. “I’m sure she’ll give a glowing report.”

“In that case,” Cherry turned, “We can discuss payment.” She shrugged. “Say… 500?”

“Ah, but Ms. Cherry,” he interrupted, “It is not a monetary payment I seek.”

“Oh?”

“Ms. Cherry…” He sighed, “I hear that you have connections. To people. And there happens to be a person I am rather eager to meet, and I believe you are the woman who can help me contrive a meeting with her.”

“And who _pray tell_ is this?” she mocked.

“Fish Mooney.” He rocked back and forth on his heels, watching as Cherry’s eyebrows rose.

“Fish?” She cackled. “Honey, that’s gonna cost you more than one lousy med snatch.” 

“I’m willing to do whatever it takes,” Ed quickly amended. “Just get me that meeting.”

She tilted her head. “Whatever it takes, huh?” He nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I think I’ll take that deal.”

They shook on it and Ed tried to tamp down the floating feeling of dread.

♠ ♠ ♠

Ed dropped the keys on the side table, heard them clink together. He could wash them later.

He got undressed, leaving the clothes in a pile on the floor. He’d have to burn them anyway. _He got undressed, leaving the clothes in a pile on the floor. He’d have to burn them anyway. He got undressed, leaving the clothes in a pile on the floor. He’d have to burn them anyway. He got undressed, leaving the clothes in a pile on the floor. He’d have to burn them anyway. He got undressed, leaving the clothes in a pile on the floor. He’d have to burn them anyway._

He was in the bathroom, and he was switching on the light, looking in the mirror, placing his glasses on the porcelain. His head felt foggy.

He turned on the shower and stepped under, waiting for the water to change from chilling to scalding. He sighed, hanging his head to let his hair get wet. The water below was tinged red, and the colour lapped at his feet like it wanted to stay with him.

“God…” He tipped forward, pressed his forehead against the glass and tried to breathe through the steam around him. Behind the glass, a shape moved, and suddenly he was upright, staring avidly. Exhaling, he crept his hand forward, pressing it against the glass, before quickly wiping across and snapping back into place. Two pale green eyes stared back at him through the gap, water dripping from quirked eyebrows.

“Oswald?”

“More blood on your hands, Eddie?”

Ed scowled. “I’m not doing this right now.” He turned around and grabbed the bar of soap, beginning to scrub his skin vigorously.

“Shall I join you?” Not-Oswald called through the glass. Ed didn’t respond. “You missed a spot!”

“Shut up.” He scrubbed harder. His skin felt thick with it, blood concreted over him, impossible to chip away. He scraped with his nails, ignored the sting.

“Ed, I’m pretty sure you’ve got it all,” Not-Oswald said with a snort.

He sighed and turned the water off, pushing through the door and walking to stand in front of the mirror. He snatched up his glasses and slid them into place, twisting around to check his skin in the reflection. Spotless. Fine.

“You know, you’ve been gone for weeks,” He stated. The mirror blinked back at him. “More than a month, even.”

“Sure about that?” The figment chuckled. “You never were good at telling time.”

“I’m sure.” He snatched the towel off the rack, wiped down his face with a sigh before slinging it around his shoulders and rubbing it through his hair.

“Now who’s dripping on the floor?”

“Still you.” He dried the rest of himself, awkwardly conscious of his apparition’s scrutiny from the corner of the room.

“Just one more thing, Ed.”

“Go ahead.” He walked out to the main room, scooting around the bed to reach the closet.

“Was it worth it?”

“What?” He might as well get ready for bed. He wasn’t hungry enough to eat. 

“Was it worth killing another miserable soul for this pointless vindication?”

“Pointless?” Ed ripped a sleep shirt off a hanger. “Why not go back to wherever you’ve been for the last month and leave me alone.”

“You’re proving a point,” Oswald scoffed. “I get it, of course, but as your subconscious, I’m telling you, you haven’t thought it thr–”

“I’m not proving anything!” He snatched his sleep pants and stumbled into them. “I have nothing left to prove.”

“Ed, I know you love him, but bringing him back won’t solve–”

“I ALREADY TOLD YOU, GET THE HELL OUT!” His chest heaved and he _hated_ that he’d shown his hand, shouted like an animal. Oswald was always making him act out, say nonsense, lose his head. It was intoxicating and addictive, and he hated giving in, hated the tug of war, hated him, hated him, hated him.

_I hate him, I hate him, I hate him, I hate him (I don’t love him)._

“Yes, you hate me, I get it,” The putrid, stinking figment spat. “But believe me, he will hate you all the way to hell and back if you keep going along with this.”

“Good. He should hate me.” Ed swallowed. “Just for clarification, why would he hate me?”

“You shove a life into that river sludge you call a corpse, you’ll be making a monster,” he explained. He was dripping on the floor again.

“You’re wrong. Oswald _embraces_ the things that make him different.” It’s one of the many things that made him beautiful. And hateful. And awful. And wonderful.

Slowly, Ed pivoted, staring at the chamber, searching for Oswald’s gaping holes, except–

“Wh-what did you do?” He spun back to glare at the apparition, “How did you turn him around? How did you do that? Why did you do that?”

“I did nothing!” He grinned, showing yellowed teeth dripping dark.

“Then who?” Ed’s head was beginning to float and he rather felt like he was looking at himself from the other side of the room, watching himself staring at the decaying back of the man he loved… or didn’t love. He couldn’t decide.

“E̴̪̙̜͒̾͑̆̉̓̀̓̍͠͠d̶̹̲͈͎̙͊,̵̺͈̳̤̹͙̯͕̲̈ ̶̡̣̩̥̤̙͉̥̮̦̳͗̈̑̓͌̈́̀͝f̸̠̺̰̝̺̝̑̉͑̌̈̕o̴̡͓̬̟͈̩̠̪̰̼̰͆̇̀c̷̨̲̙̯̠̺̙̑͛̓͛̔̑͊͗͌̕̕͝͝u̷̪̙̍̓̈́̈́̉́̐̌ş̴͉̲̪͈̠̱̩͈͇͇̑̿̒͛̎̈̓͝.”

“Huh?” Everything was so… blurry.

“Ed, look at it. You turned it around.” Ed blinked at it, focusing his eyes slowly. A smeared red handprint marked along the side of the chamber. He held his hand up to it. A match.

“When did I..?”

“You came home, you took your clothes off, you turned it around and then you went and had a shower.” He was so strange.

_Don’t you think he’s strange? Being concerned about me? I don’t understand why he should care? Do you? Can you hear me? Can someone hear me?_

“Ed?”

“I’m not okay, am I?” _Oswald, could you please direct me to the part of the story where I am happy that is not the end?_

“No, I don’t think you are.”

He fell back on the bed, watched the ceiling as it cried.

“Shit.”

♠ ♠ ♠

“What is it, Nygma?”

Stupid. This was stupid. He didn’t need a doctor. He was fine. He just needed to complete his mission, have Oswald alive again. Then it would all go away, and everything would be good and right and happy.

“Nygma?”

_You better fucking do this, Ed. Otherwise… otherwise I doubt you’ll be alive to see Oswald anyway._

“Lee.” Ed cleared his throat. “How are you?”

“A damn sight better than you,” she answered, frowning at him. “When was the last time you ate anything?”

“I…” He bit his lip, twisted fingers into knots. “You know, I really can’t remember.”

“Huh.” She looked him up and down. Then she turned.

“Lee–” his hand shot out and snatched her wrist, squeezing hard.

“Ed, what the hell?”

“I know you hate me,” he told her, “But, Lee,” Oh god, “I’m not doing so well.” He watched her closely, waiting for her to push him off, to abandon him, maybe to die in front of him, leave him permanently like everyone else was doing lately.

Then suddenly her expression changed, softening, settling. “Why don’t you have a seat, Ed?”

“Thank you.”

_Thank you, thank you, thank you._


	4. The Lives That We Have Led

“So,” Lee took a sip from her mug before placing it delicately on the desk beside her. “How have you been coping with Cherry’s assignments?”

“Better,” Ed answered, clutching his own cup in his hands. “She says I’m getting closer to seeing Fish, but…”

“But?” 

“But I’m starting to suspect she might just be saying that.” He sighed and looked down at his tea, peering at the reflection staring back at him. “Either she’s pretending to have a better connection to Fish than she has, or she really can get me a meeting with her and is just stalling in order to take advantage of my help.”

“You may have a point,” Lee nodded, reaching for her tea again, “It has been a few months now.”

“Yeah, well, I probably shouldn’t have said I’d do _anything_ for that meeting,” he muttered.

“You’re right,” she sighed, “but part of working forward is acknowledging our mistakes and observing what we can learn from them, so well done.”

“Thanks,” he said automatically. “What do you think I should do? Or should I be working it out myself?”

“No, it can be very humble and wise to seek advice from people you trust. As long as you allow yourself the final say on what you do. You should not follow my advice unless you’re absolutely certain it’s what you want to do.” 

“I see,” he nodded, “So, tell me what you think.”

Lee set her tea down on the desk once more. “I would say that in some cases, confrontation is a necessary evil in order to move forward.”

“True enough,” he acknowledged. “So, I should just point my gun at her until she does what I want?”

Lee winced. “Not exactly what I meant. For most people, a confrontation means speaking to the person about the issue at hand directly.”

“You want me to… talk to her?” Ed shook his head. Not exactly the kind of advice he was used to hearing.

“Ask her about the meeting, talk about how she’s been treating you,” She insisted. 

“Right.” 

“I want you to take some time to think about what you want to say, and then go and talk to her about it.” Lee shrugged. “Might do more good than you think.”

“I guess I’m just not used to that kind of thinking,” he admitted.

“That’s fair.” She nodded. “Still, please try it first, and if it doesn’t work, then you can try other means.”

Ed thought about it for a moment. On one hand, it was an absolutely ridiculous notion. On the other hand, he trusted Lee’s judgement, and surely trying something new couldn’t be too detrimental. “I think I will.”

“Very good.” She picked up her tea again and took another sip. “Now, tell me, have you had any further hallucinations?”

He nodded. “I think so. There was this moment in front of the mirror where it was smiling at me and running its finger across my neck like a… like a threat.”

“What do you think that means?” 

He’d been thinking about it ever since it happened. “I think it’s to do with Cherry again. Part of me is a bit more irritated and I haven’t been admitting it. And that part is angry with me for not doing something about it sooner.”

“I see. That makes a lot of sense. Well done, Ed, for thinking about it and communicating your thoughts so effectively.”

He smiled. “Thank you.”

She suddenly checked her watch. “Perhaps we can talk more about that irritation in our next session?”

“That’s okay with me.”

“Very good.” She nodded. “Do you want to see Oswald before you go?”

“Yes.” He nodded with certainty.

“‘Kay, follow me.”

Oswald lived here now, with Lee. It hadn’t been an easy decision.

“You don’t have to leave him here, Ed,” Lee had said. “It’s entirely your decision. But we both know having him in your apartment isn’t healthy. You need to do something. When you’re ready.”

“Can I have some time to think about it?”

“Take all the time you need.”

It had been a few weeks but eventually he’d agreed and they brought Oswald here together. Ed could come visit when he wanted, but needn’t be bothered by those black pits following him around in his room. He had to admit; it was a relief. When he came here, he was _choosing_ to remember, to wallow, to feel. Before he’d felt so trapped by it all. The grief, as Lee called it.

“You know, I’m still going to save him,” he recalled saying a few weeks back. “I want him back and I know I can make that happen.”

“I understand and accept your choice,” Lee had said. “But I would like you to consider something.”

“What?”

She’d turned to him. “What will you say to him when he wakes up?”

Ed still hadn’t answered her question. It was a difficult thing to contemplate, but he knew Lee wouldn’t have asked him unless she thought it was important.

As they climbed down the basement steps, Oswald’s chamber came into view, glowing blue in the dark.

“Would you like me to stay?” Lee asked as they reached the base of the steps.

“Not this time,” he replied. “I want to talk to him.”

“That’s okay. I’ll just be in my office.” He watched her climb the stairs. The door closed.

“Alone,” he sighed. Slowly, he turned to face Oswald. He still wasn’t very pretty, but Ed’s stomach had stopped tormenting him each time he saw him now. So that was something. 

“I know it’s been a while, but I’ve been so busy,” he apologized firstly. It wouldn’t do for Oswald to misunderstand his absence. “I’ve been working hard, trying to get you back. I promise, it won’t be long now. I’m seeing this through.”

Oswald floated back at him, still dark, still empty.

“No matter what.”

♠ ♠ ♠

“Cherry.”

“Ed.” He leant against the railings beside her, looking down at the commotion below. “I’m telling ya, kid; there’s nothing more addictive than chaos. And that there is utter chaos.”

“Indeed.” He cleared his throat. “Ms. Cherry, there is something I need to discuss with you.”

“Can it wait? I’m watching the fight here.”

“No, it cannot wait.” _Stay firm, she has to listen to you._

“Fine,” She twisted her body to face him, “I’m listening.”

“Um,” he tapped a rhythm on the railing with his thumb. “The thing is, I am well aware that you…” Darn, “No, let me start over.”

“Please do,” Cherry droned. 

“Right, well.” He gripped the railing. “Cherry.” She cocked her head at him. “We are both aware that I wish to have a meeting with Miss Fish Mooney.”

“Yep,” she clicked her tongue.

“And you agreed to organise that meeting if I did some… work for you.”

She raised an eyebrow. “With you so far.”

“And while we did not stipulate terms, I think I have the right to say that I have fulfilled my quota and am prepared for my payment now.” He plastered on a smile last minute, remembering how that always worked in the past.

“‘Prepared for your payment’? Really?” Her lips pulled back, revealing teeth.

“Indeed, I am. When can I see Miss Mooney?” His grip on the railing was quite firm now and it struck him that if Cherry were to try toss him over the edge, that grip may at least save him from total damnation.

“You know what stretch?” Every muscle in his body was tense, grasping for her next words. “Why not? I like you. I’ll get you a meeting.”

“Oh, _thank you_ ,” he breathed, felt his chest expand quickly.

“But that doesn’t change a thing,” she prodded her fingernail in his chest and suddenly his stomach turned. “You still work for me. You’re still my _bitch_.”

Ed ground his teeth, glaring at her. “Am I?”

“Yes,” she hissed. “And your girlfriend, the _doc_ , she better watch out too. ‘Cause if you even try to leave me, it’s her throat I’ll be ripping out first.”

Well, that just wouldn’t do. “Roger dodger.” He shot her a salute and she rolled her eyes.

“Get lost, squirt. I’ll see you Monday.”

“Yes.” He turned and rushed down the steps. As soon as Fish Mooney gave him Strange, Cherry was next.

♠ ♠ ♠

“Knock, knock,” Ed rapped his knuckles against the door.

“Ed! Come in, sit down!” Lee welcomed him, pulling out a chair.

“Hi, Dr. Thompkins,” he took the seat, “I just wanted to come say goodbye, and I know it’s Sunday evening so you don’t have much work to do.”

“Goodbye? Are you going somewhere, Ed?” She walked over to the kettle, switching it on as she started to bring out her tea set.

“Well, I got that meeting with Fish Mooney. It’s tomorrow.”

“Oh, congratulations, Ed!” She rubbed his shoulder. How nice. “You deserve it.”

“Yes, but I think I’ll rather be occupied with that side of things for a while, and I don’t suppose I’ll be seeing you as regularly then.” It was a little distressing really. He’d gotten used to relying on someone again. It wasn’t the same as… as before, but he considered Lee a friend now. He knew better than most how valuable that was.

“Well, Ed, you know you’re always welcome here,” Lee told him. “And… I don’t know if I have forgiven you for Kristen.”

Ed shuddered. It had been a long time since he heard that name.

“But I don’t resent you. I even consider you a… friend. Of sorts.” She grabbed two mugs and brought them to the desk. “Here.” 

He took the mug from her grasp. “I consider you a friend too, Lee. And I do appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”

“You put your trust in me, Ed,” Lee shrugged, “Honestly, it surprised me.”

He chuckled, “I can imagine.”

“Ed, now you’re here, there is one thing I think we still need to discuss.”

“Oh?” He swallowed thickly. “What’s that?”

“Oswald.” She stirred her tea slowly. “We’ve discussed your guilt around what happened, and your following hallucinations of him, but never what caused you to kill him in the first place.”

_She knows._

“Who says I killed him?!” He was laughing for some reason.

“Come on, Ed. I’m not an idiot.”

He pinched his lips together. “Yeah, I killed him.”

She nodded and shrugged as if to say ‘yeah, of course’.

“But you know I want to take it back. That’s why I’m working so hard to find Fish.”

“I understand.” She lifted her cup to her lips and blew on it slowly. “Ed, can you take me back to what happened that caused all of this?”

His right hand twitched and he had to put his cup down. “You know Oswald and I met back when he was on the run from Galavan and the police.” That cold forest night with Oswald’s blurry image when he’d felt a thousand things at once. “He was wounded. Depressed. I took him to my apartment.”

“I’m sure you meant well by that.” She smiled and took a sip of her tea.

“I did and I didn’t,” he allowed. “I was fascinated by Oswald. I’d seen him in the paper.” Oswald Cobblepot, the King of Gotham. _The King of **Gotham**._ “Problem is, often when I’m fascinated by something, I forget…” he sighed, “I forget that it isn’t _mine_ because in my mind it _becomes_ mine. My apartment was full of things that had become mine. And so, of course, that’s where Oswald belonged, too.”

He glanced up to suddenly meet Lee’s contemplative stare, as if she was seeing something for the first time.

“I see,” she said simply.

_Do you?_

“We became friends there,” he told her. “At least, I thought of us as friends. It is questionable how good a friend I was. Or how good a friend he was.”

_“We are better off unencumbered.”_

_“My mother was a **saint**.”_

How had he done that? Was he so desperate to have the Penguin “as seen on TV” that he’d forgotten he was human?

“We can stop if you want.” Lee suddenly caught his attention once more. 

“No, I-I–” he grabbed his tea and took a hasty sip, “I’m fine.”

_Inhale, exhale, I’m fine._

“After Oswald left to try and evade the police, we lost contact for a while and our relationship dwindled.” It had been a lonely few months. “But when I went to Arkham… Oswald was the only person who visited me. The person who cared for me.” Cookies, books and warm sweaters piled in the corner and Ed had thought that maybe he was insane in this Arkham arcade. “I thought he was playing a game, tricking me into trusting him before he pounced.” It was something he did, luring them in to slit their throat.

“Was that true?” She asked.

_“Talking to you these past few months…”_

“No.” 

_“I don’t know how I would’ve gotten by otherwise.”_

“It wasn’t.” He rubbed his shoes together, fiddling with the hem of his jacket. “Oswald got me out of Arkham and took care of me.” A smile snagged his lips and he set it free. “Like he was fascinated by me.” Set it all free. “Not only that, like I was the most fascinating thing he’d ever found, like I needed polishing and protection. I liked that.” He took a sip of his tea. “I wanted him to like me more–more than anyone. His fascination made me feel powerful.” 

She set her tea on the desk. “Do you like to feel powerful?”

Ed looked down at his tea. His reflection blinked back at him then nodded. “More than anything.”

She nodded, quiet for a moment. “Please continue.”

He breathed, then continued, “I paid him compliments, treated him well. It made Butch jealous and I loved that.” He smiled reflexively. “I flaunted in it.” He glanced back at Lee, asking, “Have you ever been addicted to someone’s company?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“That’s okay.” He shrugged. “The only boyfriend you’ve had is Jim.”

Lee frowned. “Jim wasn’t my only boyfriend.”

“Oh.” Oh dear. “Well, nevermind then.” Where was he? Oh, fascination. “Anyway, I think that’s why he did it.”

“Did what?”

“Fell in love with me.”

A beat. A moment. Ed looked at Lee and she stared right back, both of their hands holding mugs as their eyes locked in a staring match.

“I thought you said you lied when you told the police you two were together?”

“It was a lie,” he confirmed.

“But you said you found out Oswald was in love with you.” She shook her head. “Didn’t you get together?”

“I found out he loved me after,” he clarified.

“After what?”

“Isabella.” Blond, pretty and almost too perfect Isabella.

“Who’s Isabelle?”

“Isabella,” he corrected. “She was my girlfriend.”

“Oh.”

“I loved her. Things were going perfectly.” _Yeah, ‘perfectly,’ **right**._ “Until Oswald killed her.”

Lee’s eyebrows skyrocketed up her forehead. “Oh?”

“It was very upsetting.” She nodded her understanding. “When Barbara told me Oswald was behind her death, I was furious.”

“And that’s why you…” She waved her hand “Did what you did?”

“Yes, but–” He slid forward to the edge of his seat, “Barbara _told_ me that Oswald did it because he loved me.”

“Like you said, he fell in love with you.”

“No, but he _couldn’t_ have. He just _thought_ he was in love with me.” Lee was frowning. She seemed confused. “Because of how I’d behaved! Complimenting him and paying him attention.”

Her mouth was slightly open but no sound came out.

“I had to show him the truth! Prove he didn’t love me, that he couldn’t love anyone after what he did. So I gave him a choice: his life or mine.”

“And he chose his.” She uncrossed and crossed her legs.

“No.” He shook his head. “He chose to let me live. Said that he’d die before he’d let someone hurt me.”

She blinked. “So, he–”

“He really loved me.” It seemed impossible. “He really did. And I just drove him down to the pier and put a bullet in his heart.”

_“Ed, I love you. I know you believe that now.”_

That monster lurking in the waters of his bed,

_“Ed, are you listening to me?”_

Casting shadows in his head,

_“Say something.”_

Asking, **please** , make a heartbroken man undead.

“And that’s why you feel guilty?”

He nodded. “Oswald told me he loved me and I killed him. Because that’s just what I thought was the next step. The easiest and most logical way to deal with it. But I never gave myself the chance to talk to him properly, to tell him…” he trailed off. His cup was empty now.

“Tell him what?” Lee asked, blurry and distant.

“That I…” Ed shrugged. “Loved him? Not quite the same way he did.” _That fascination._ “But I could’ve loved him more if he’d let me.”

“Let you?”

He shrugged. “Not killed Isabella. Told me about everything while she was still alive.”

“That would’ve changed something?”

_Hey Ed._

_I love you._

_Could you love me?_

_(Origami Penguins and saving my life, kiss me soft in front of the fireplace and I might stay with you.)_

“It would’ve changed _everything_.”

♠ ♠ ♠

“Listen, squirt, don’t make funny in there. I’m on thin ice with that squad anyhow.”

He nodded convincingly. “Understood.”

“Good,” Cherry grunted. “Now let’s go.”

Fish’s base of operations seemed to be her old entertainment club and Ed had a moment of utter repulsion with himself for not simply checking there months and months ago. Truly, he could feel his reflection’s glare in every bottle and glass that lined the wall.

“Hiya, Fish, umbrella guy, guard dudes,” Cherry grinned at them, nodding to each one in turn.

Fish was shorter than he’d pictured, probably less than 5’’4. But as she swivelled her head and struck him with her stare, he realized she was much taller than her body. She could possibly fill the whole city if she tried.

Oswald had been like that.

“Who is this little man?” Each word was gifted its own special inflection, her tongue crafting the sentence like a sword in blazing heat.

“Honestly,” Cherry shrugged, “I call ‘im lotsa things. Squirt, stretch, it all works.”

She was looking him up and down and he wondered if Fish Mooney perhaps saw something no one else could see because her lips twisted in thought and her mismatched eyes flashed.

“What is he doing here?”

“Well, he wanted to meet you and I kinda had to bring him, so–”

“M.s Cherry, if you’d allow me,” he quickly interrupted, stepping forward. “I’m here to talk to you about a private matter, Miss Mooney.”

“A private matter, huh?” She moved toward with a nonchalance as if he was some object she was inspecting to determine whether it was worth her time. “You look familiar, friend.”

_“Look, **friend** –”_

Ed ignored the memory and forced a grin tipping his hat. “You may know from the paper as…” he pivoted, splaying his hands, “The Riddler!” He rolled the R proudly.

Fish shook her head. “No, not that.”

Why could no one in this town recognize him?

“What’s your name, child?” Suddenly her fingers were against his cheek, her clawed fingernails caressing beneath his left eye gently, kissing like a threat.

“Edward Nashton,” he found himself saying. “But everyone else knows me as Nygma.”

Two stones sank to the bottom in the river of her eyes and Ed was reminded of the rushed out words of _business partners, I meant business partners._

“Take this little rat-eyed _bitch_ out back.”

All the breath left his body and thoughts of running were halted by two pairs of arms grabbing his shoulders and waist, lifting him from his feet. He kicked instinctively, but nothing happened.

“What the fuck, Fish?” He heard Cherry shout. “That’s my best worker! He offs people for free!”

“Do you want him dead, Fish?” One of the guards asked as they reached a metal door.

“No,” she tutted. “Make him _wish_ he was dead.”

_Oh dear._

♠ ♠ ♠

_“Wow. What a pickle you’ve gotten yourself into.”_

Ed blinked slowly. The bat above him was edging closer, gaining ground. Perhaps it would hit his ribs. Or his stomach. That could result in bruised organs, which was never good. A fractured rib would be better for his lifespan, but the pain would be excruciating.

_“Although, really, you should have expected this. When have your plans ever gone smoothly?”_

Perhaps it would accidentally crack a hip-bone. That wouldn’t be so bad. He’d never really liked his hips. Oswald had had nice hips.

_“You are a fucking **mess**.”_

Yes, he realized this.

The bat connected with his skin, pressing down with the inercia. It took him a moment to assess what was damaged as the neurons fired messages to his brain expressing from… ribcage. Darn.

The bat rose from his flesh, floating skyward.

_“Well, that fucking hurt. Don’t you think that hurt Eddie?”_

Yes, it had.

The bat stopped rising, twisting to the side instead.

_“You know, I bet I could handle this better than you. Why not let me have a ride?”_

The bat started descending again.

It would take more than that to convince him to hand over the reigns.

_“Oh, come **on** , Eddie. You know as well as I that I can take a punch.”_

Another pulse against his flesh, nerve-endings gunshotting pain from his thigh. Hopefully, they didn’t bruise the artery. Bruised arteries were never good news.

_“Ed, focus.”_

He was focusing.

The bat rose again.

_“I’m doing you a favour by offering to help you. I could abandon you right here if wanted. See how you deal with this by yourself.”_

Hmm.

He watched the bat swing.

Perhaps he could allow him through. Just this once.

_“That’s right, Eddie.”_

The bat inched closer.

_“Good boy.”_

♠ ♠ ♠

“–ell I’m going to let you kill _my_ people and get away with it.”

Ed blinked, flinching as all his senses came back online at once, sound rushing through his head, the scratch of his clothes and the cold air on his fingertips, the metallic taste on his tongue, the bright flash of the world around him… and Fish Mooney’s fever-inducing stare as she leered over him, the heel of her shoe pressing sharply into a cracked rib.

“I’m going to end you bitch, and you’re going to _beg_ for forgiveness while I do it.”

“What did I do?” Or perhaps the real question was; _what did **he** do? _Suddenly, there was a knife in his face. “What did I do, what did I do?!”

“You–” A slap to his cheek, sending him reeling, “Killed–” Another to his right cheek, “My–” Another, “Boy!”

The knife was there again, dangled in front of his eye.

“No, no, no, no, Miss Mooney, wait!” He gasped as the blade cut through the delicate skin below his eye. “I need your help!”

“You _dare_ to ask me for help?” She was… she was crying. “After you shot my boy and dumped him in the river?” 

_Dumped him in the river._

_“I shot him and dumped him in the river.”_

_Oswald?_

“You mean Oswald?” The knife turned, heading for his other eye. “Wait, wait, it’sbecauseof Oswald that I need your help!”

The knife left his skin, hovering his in a fist above him. “He was like a _son_ to me!” One blow and she would end him.

“And he was everything to me.”

Midnights and dark phases, the feeling in his stomach and the ghost melting in his dreams.

The knife lowered slightly.

“Please, just give me a chance to explain,” he pleaded.

For a moment, he thought she might listen, but the moment passed and her face was resolved.

“You deserve nothing from me.” She turned her head, looking at something past him. “Take him and clean him up. Make sure he can’t leave.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Oh dear. “No please, wait.” Another pair of arms encircled him. “No, wait! Wait, wait, wait, wa–”

♠ ♠ ♠

They bound his wrists and feet as they taped his ribs and tended to his face. He was broken and bruised, but apparently no one in the building had an actual medical licence so he would have to wait.

“Do I get food?” He asked at some point. They all just laughed.

He stumbled as they pushed him down the corridor. “You’re in here.” It seemed nice enough. There were locks everywhere and plenty of places they could tie him up, but there was a functioning bed with even a sheet. It reminded him of his first night in Gotham, paying 25 bucks and a blowjob to sleep under a roof for one more night.

“Sleep.” The guard grunted.

“What’s your name?” Ed asked him.

“Shawn.”

“When can I eat, Shawn?”

The man smirked. “What was the last thing you ate?”

“Cup of tea and four pickles out of the jar.”

Shawn laughed. “What a crappy last meal, man. See ya later.” He closed the door and Ed heard a series of definitive clicks as locks slipped into place.

_What a crappy last meal._

Great. He was starving already.

With a sigh, he laid back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. The paint was in good condition at least. He felt along his cheek for the cut Fish had made. Not bleeding anymore at least. Still, his whole body ached. He wished they’d given him pain killers. Then maybe he could sleep. He needed a distraction.

“Remember the time we went to the Thanksgiving parade?” his voice hung in the empty room. “I was afraid you’d fall off the float because you refused to use your cane. You were always so stubborn.” He attempted a laugh, but he didn’t know who he was trying to kid. He was alone here. Ed swallowed. “And you said if I was so worried that I could hold your hand and keep you steady.” 

And because he was alone and no one could tease, Ed stretched his hands towards each other and clasped them together, holding tight. “I’ve got you, Oswald,” he whispered.

_In the blood and toil, where skeletons sneak together into closets until bones are piled high, I’ve got you._

♠ ♠ ♠

“Wake up!” Something hard hit his side. “Boss wants ya.”

“Mmm, yes, sure,” Ed sat up, groaning as he realized he’d left his glasses on in his sleep and they’d pressed into his swollen cheek. He glanced up. “Oh, it’s you, Shawn.”

The guard rolled his eyes. “I don’t feel like carrying nobody, so hurry up will ya?”

“Do I get a bathroom break?” Ed asked, “Or shall I relieve myself on the floor.”

Shawn’s face screwed up at him. “You’re real weird, ya know?”

“Have been told,” he said, “Bathroom or not?”

“You have a minute max. Come with me.” Ed followed him down the hall.

The bathroom was small and cramped and no matter how hard he tried to tug on the window, it wouldn’t budge an inch. Darn it.

“Have fun in there?” Shawn chuckled.

“Just take me to Fish,” he sighed.

As they walked, Ed's stomach growled loudly.

“Pickles not enough for ya?” Shawn guffawed.

“Tell me, Shawn,” Ed glanced around the corner, eyeing the upcoming pot-plant, “How long have you been in the employ of Miss Mooney?”

“I'm kinda new.” Shawn scratched his cheek. “A few months back when Fish came ‘round again, she started gathering people, old Falcone folk, loyalists and the like. Before then there were only the freaks. But don't call ‘em that fronta the boss. Gets her knives in a twist.” He laughed at his little joke.

“So you’re part of the new crew,” Ed summarized.

“Mmm, yeah.”

“What happened to the old one?”

“Who knows?” he shrugged, turning a corner. “Don’t bother with asking questions much myself.”

“Of course you don’t.” Ed rolled his eyes. “This new crew, is there a man called Butch Gilzean?”

“Oh, yeah, we all know Butch. Fish and him have some weird thing between them. Vomit as soon as I leave the room with them, I do.”

“And Tabitha Galavan?”

“Nah, don’t know that name.” Ha. Would you look at that? “Anyway, boss is through there,” he pointed at a door. “Ya s’posed to be a prisoner though, so I’m gonna have to walk ya in.”

“Sure,” Ed shrugged. “Not like I can really fight you.”

Shawn shrugged. “Ya took out those other guys. But I’m not too worried.”

“Oh?”

“Figured ya probably killed them ‘cos they hurt ya first. So I just ain’t gonna hurt ya.” He shrugged. “‘Less boss tells me to, ‘course.”

“Perfectly reasonable assessment,” Ed allowed. “Let’s go in.”

Shawn held his hands behind his back and marched him through the door. Ed exhaled slowly as he eyed the weapons and tools lining the walls so thickly it looked like wallpaper. Shawn led him to the dentist chair in the centre, strapping him in with modified leather binding.

“There ya go,” he said conversationally. Ed’s heart was beating in his throat.

“Is she going to kill me now?”

“Sure,” Shawn shrugged. “Don’t worry you probably deserve it.”

Oh dear. And after how far he’d come too.

“ _There_ you are, Mr. Nygma.” The door swung open, Miss Mooney striding through with two lackeys behind her, staring menacingly. “Sorry to be late, but old friends tend to talk long,” She cocked her head to her side, “Especially with a gun to their head.”

“I assume this is supposed to make me feel threatened?” He asked, trying to nod his head at her, but the chin strap got in the way.

“You don’t need to feel threatened. I like my guests to feel comfortable.” She gestured to the air around her. “Do you feel comfortable?”

Ed frowned, testing the hold of the straps. They didn’t budge. “Not really.”

“Too bad.” She walked towards him before detouring to the wall, snatching something he couldn’t see.

“Why are you the one doing this?” Ed asked. “Isn’t this kind of a job for one of your subordinates?”

“This is personal,” she snapped, turning around with a knife in her hand. “You hurt my boy.” She walked to his side, stretching a finger to scratch a line down his cheek. “You’ll pay for it. But the punishment must fit the crime, so...” She leant in, pressing the knife-tip to his shoulder, digging in. “Tell me everything that happened.”

“I’ll tell you,” Ed said plainly. “You don’t have to torture me.” 

“How refreshing.” She dug the knife in harder and it pierced the skin, making him hiss. “Go ahead.”

“I regret killing Oswald,” he stated.

“Then why do I feel like I need convincing?” She pushed the knife in further and Ed had the spine chilling feeling of the blade scraping bone.

“I-I mean it, I promise. My plan for his destruction went awry...” 

_“I won’t let you hurt him.”_

_“Does this mean I passed?”_

_“Ed?”_

“A-and instead of realizing that Oswald deserved a different fate, I killed him. Even after everything.”

_“You can’t do this.”_

“I was too focused on my own beliefs of him to take the time to consider that I might be…”

“Be?” Fish clicked her tongue impatiently.

“...Wrong,” He finished eventually, looking up at her. She tilted her head, lips pursed in thought.

“Fine.” She finally pulled the knife from his shoulder. “Get him a bandage while he talks.”

One of the goons left the room.

“You know I think about what happened between me and Oswald very often,” Ed admitted.

“Yes. He has that effect on people,” Fish crossed her arms. “Tell me your story, Nygma. I want the truth.”

He swallowed. “I fell in love.”

“With… Oswald?” She raised her eyebrows.

“N-no, not with… I mean–”

“Your stuttering, my dear.”

Ed huffed, rolling his eyes. “I fell in love with a _woman_. Her name was Isabella. She was perfect.”

“Mm-hm.”

“At the time, Oswald and I were friends. He claimed to support our relationship. Then she died rather suddenly.” His lips twisted. “I suspected foul play and my suspicions were confirmed. However, I struggled to locate the culprit. That was until Barbara.”

“Barbara Kean?”

“The very same,” he confirmed. “How’s the war going by the way?”

“Stick to the topic at hand,” she hissed. “You’re on very thin ice.” 

Ed rolled his eyes and continued. “Barbara Kean told me Oswald killed Isabella. She said he was in love with me and his jealousy was what led him to murder her.”

Fish shot him a look. “My Oswald loved _you_?”

“I didn’t believe it either!” Ed exhaled slowly. The pain in his shoulder was getting worse and the edges of his vision were a little blurry. “I thought he just _thought_ what he was feeling was love. And that it was his own selfishness and possessiveness that led him to kill Isabella: That he viewed me as an object he did not want to share.”

“But you were wrong,” she surmised, pursing her lips.

“I…” He glanced away, “...Yes.” 

_“I won’t let you hurt him!”_

“He was in love with me. And in the end, he wasn’t selfish. He was willing to give his own life to save mine. In retrospect, that was when I should’ve realized that killing him wasn’t right.”

Fish scowled, leaning closer. “How did you do it?”

He licked his lips. “I took him down to the docks and stood there while he…”

“Begged?”

“No.” He tried to shake his head, but the chinstrap again. “No, he told me that I needed him.”

“And was he wrong?”

“In some ways, yes.” Ed watched as the lights on the ceiling blinked in and out. “I don’t need him to survive, to be successful, even to feel joy. But I need people I can rely on, and he was that. I need people who will care for me, and he was that. I need someone I can try to love. And I did love him. In my own way.”

“And after he told you you needed him, what happened?”

_“Say something.”_

_“I loved her, Oswald. And you killed her.”_

“I shot him.” He swallowed. “In the heart. Then I pushed him in the river.”

“My, my,” Fish leaned closer. “Don’t you have a cold heart?”

“I shouldn’t have killed him,” Ed whispered. The ceiling shivered.

“Well, thank you for telling me the truth.” She nodded her head. “Now I can kill you properly.” She stalked to the wall, snatching a pistol from a stand.

“Miss Mooney, please, I’m the only one–”

“Don’t you dare try to beg for your life!” She pressed the tip of the gun beneath his chin. “You killed him so _you_ die.” The safety clicked off.

“Please, please!” Ed felt panic claw his chest, all his muscles straining against the bindings to get away. “I want to take it all back. If I could go back and change it I would! Please, just–”

“But you can’t bring him back!” She sobbed through her teeth. “You can’t take back what you did!”

Ed gasped. “I can bring him back!”

“Lie!” She moved the gun to press its tip against his heart.

“No, I swear!” He yelled, struggling against his bonds. “I have his body! I’ve just been looking for Professor Strange to help me with it. Like he did for you.” Fish stopped, pulling back. “I swear it’s the truth. That’s why I came here; to ask you to help me find him.”

She was silent for a long minute. “You have the body?”

“Hidden in a safe place, yes,” He panted.

Slowly, she pulled the gun away from his chest and clicked the safety on once more. “I need to see it. Then I’ll make my decision.”

♠ ♠ ♠

“Nice to see you again, Ed,” Dr. Thompkins greeted.

“No, the pleasure is all mine.” He nodded.

“Are you feeling... comfortable?” She looked him up and down.

Ed twisted his head to glance at the handcuffs keeping his wrists bound behind him. “I’ve had better, but I’ve also had worse, so it all evens out.”

“As touching as this reunion is, we are here for a reason, _doc_ ,” Fish purred, moving to stand between them.

“Yes, of course.” Lee nodded. “Let me show you the way, Miss Mooney.”

It was different descending the basement steps behind Fish and her entourage. It felt like she was stepping into his bedroom without permission, or walking in on him in the bathroom.

_**“ARE YOU OKAY, ED?”** _

“God, why are you shouting?” Ed pulled away, rubbing his ear into his shoulder.

Lee frowned, “I’m not. I just asked if you were okay.”

“I’m fine,” Ed laughed, “This is _fine_.”

“Hey, you,” One of the guards sniffed, “Stop trying to help him escape.”

“I think you’ll find I’m just talking to him.” She turned to him. “Ed, you–”

“Nygma.” Fish didn’t raise her voice, but somehow he heard it echoing around the walls. “Come here.”

He stumbled down the rest of the stairs, rushing to her side. “Oh.” He looked up. Oswald floated before him, suspended in the water. His green and black skin remained unchanged, the hole in his heart still darkened and rotted.

There was a vice around Ed’s stomach that he had built with the thoughts of _this is right_ and, _it’s what he deserves._

“I feel as if that is my body floating there,” He whispered to himself. “I will not be alive until he is too.”

Fish was glaring at him. “Look at what you’ve done to my boy.”

“You know, I thought… I thought that we would be…” Those deep pits stared back at him.

“You thought?”

“I had sort of decided that no matter what, it would be me and him. Forever. We might leave, but we’d come back to each other. But now he’s…” Dead. Ed killed him.

He’d lost his forever.

“You think the Professor can fix this?” Fish asked, snatching his chin. “Because if he can’t, it’s your head, bitch.”

“It’s Strange!” Ed laughed, “He can bring anything back!”

♠ ♠ ♠

“No,” Strange purred, “I’m afraid I won’t be bringing your _pet_ back today.”

“Why not?” he demanded. He’d come all this way. He had to steal a vehicle to carry Oswald’s chamber, had to wait for hours while Fish contacted Strange to arrange everything, had to watch her men stare at Oswald like he was a monster. _He is a monster, he’s **my** monster. Just wait until he’s back and he tears your throat out._

“Nygma,” Strange cooed, “You didn’t seriously think I would be able to revive this flesh? It’s rotted away! He doesn’t even have hands.” He shook his head. “No; my specimens need to be pristine.”

“Can’t you just make do?” Ed stuck his hand in his pocket. “Look, five hundred dollars!” He threw it at Strange’s face, knocking his glasses. “And there’s more than that. Just _fix_ him.”

“Mr. Nygma, it is my _understanding_ that this–” He gestured to Oswald, “Is more than a hunk of flesh to you.”

Ed’s hands curled into fists. “That’s my best friend you’re talking about.”

“Exactly,” he purred. “Now I can reanimate the flesh, of course, but bring back your friend, I cannot. All that is left is–” He pulled a face, “A monster.”

“Right.” Ed smirked. Strange smiled back. “Bring him back, you heathen!” Ed punched his stupid face before reeling back, clutching his fist. “Ow, ow, owwww!”

“You broke my glasses!” Strange exclaimed.

“You called my boyfriend a monster!”

“Boyfriend?” His eyebrow raised.

“Best friend,” Ed amended quickly. “He’s my best friend.” Oh my, what an awkward Freudian slip to make. “And if you won’t help him, I’ll do it myself.”

“Where are you going, Mr. Nygma?”

He burst through the far doors, noting the makeshift lab around him; a mix of chemicals and hardware, electrical equipment and odds and ends. 

“What do I need, hmm?” Ed asked, tugging at his hair as he rounded back on the idling professor in the doorway. “Electricity right? A stimulant?”

“My, my, you seem very agitated, Mr. Nygma.”

“Shut up!” He spat. “And by the way, you’re a terrible shrink!” He searched around, knocking stuff off of tables.

“Be careful with that,” Strange hissed. “It’s vital to my project.”

“Oh, what project, turning people into even bigger imbeciles?” He smashed the chlorine on the ground. “What is chlorine good for, anyway?”

“It isn’t chlorine!” Strange screeched. Ed suddenly stopped, shocked to see the man actually emit _real_ emotion.

“What is it then?” He asked.

“I don’t know!” Strange admitted. “But it’s a remarkable substance that I’ve been studying for its unique properties and you’ve just destroyed one of the few vials I have!”

“Can you get more?” Ed asked, a little embarrassed. He was a scientist at heart and he knew there was no greater pain than some oaf coming in and destroying one’s work.

“I can, but it is no easy feat. And with the current climate of this city, I’ll have to disguise myself, but I could be caught at any moment.”

“What does it do?” Ed asked, looking at the blue liquid on the floor.

“Touch it,” Strange instructed. “Then you’ll see.”

He stared down at the blue liquid. Curiosity itched at his skin, clawing like a cat. It could be dangerous, Strange was probably fooling him, tricking him into touching a poisonous substance just to finally be rid of him. 

_But–_

But what if? What _was_ it?

Ed slowered lowered himself to the floor and dragged his finger through the liquid.

“Wha–” Suddenly he was standing with a vial raised above his head and he looked up to see that it was the same vial he’d smashed a mere minute ago. “What on _earth?_ ”

“I repeat, Mr. Nygma, be careful!”

“What the hell is this stuff?” He carefully placed the vial on the table. It was certainly fascinating, but he had no desire for a repeat of _that,_ thank you very much.

“I don’t know!” Strange admitted. “But it’s a remarkable substance that I’ve been studying for its unique properties.”

“What unique properties?” He asked.

Strange smiled. “It has the ability to transport people through time.”

“Where did you find it?” Ed asked, staring at the vial.

“Within the Court of Owls’ laboratories. They had a high volume, but I was only able to secret away a few vials. It would take a great deal of effort to extract more.”

“What do you plan to do with it?”

“The world’s most sought-after invention: A time machine,” Strange purred. “I will build it, run tests, then sell it to the highest bidder.”

“Always the money with you,” Ed muttered.

“But first, I’m going to undo everything the Court of Owls did to this city,” Strange sobbed. “I miss being able to buy groceries.”

“How generous,” Ed sighed. “Tell me, if I can get more of this stuff for you, how would you repay me?”

Strange tilted his head. “Your terms?”

“We undo everything the Court did. But we undo what I did to Oswald as well.”

Strange’s eyebrows quirked. “Quite the proposition,” he chuckled, “Tell me, how long ago was it that you killed the Mayor?”

“Almost a year ago,” he replied.

“My, my, that was rather a long time ago,” he shook his head, “It will take a lot of the time agent to go back that far.”

“I can do it, I swear,” Ed insisted. “I’ll steal it and I’ll assist you with the time machine.”

“Are you sure you’re up to the task, Mr. Nygma?” Strange looked him up and down. “You look rather worse for wear.”

Ed shifted his shirt to cover his bandages more thoroughly. “Trust me, Strange, I’ve never wanted anything more than this. I can do it.”

Slowly, he smirked. “Deal.”

♠ ♠ ♠

“How do we guarantee it takes me back to the right time?”

“From our studies, the time agent is partly psychically charged, so assuming that you can concentrate on–”

“But what if it’s not enough?” Ed sighed, shaking the canister in his hands

“Mr. Nygma, _please_ be careful when you handle the liquid hydrogen.” Strange tutted.

“Dr. _Strange_ , I believe you understand the importance of accuracy,” Ed growled, carefully passing him the canister. “As far as we know, this is a one-way trip. A certainty for success wouldn’t be amiss.”

“Mr. Nygma, there is no need to talk down to me,” he purred. “If you are really so troubled by this, I suggest you take your own measures to guarantee that the psychic side of things goes to plan.” He shrugged. “Perhaps something that reminds you of the days when Mr. Cobblepot was alive.”

It was awful to admit, but Ed felt as if those days were beginning to bleed away, his memory fading after all this time. The days were crawling away from them and the machine was getting closer and closer to a finished state. Ed had made his home again in equations and calculations, finally having a solution he could work towards.

“I think it’s about time I go back to the Manor. I might find something there.” He’d been thinking about that place for a while now. It was his last tangible tie his time with Oswald. The memories could resurface there, concrete themselves steady in his mind.

“Do what you like, just don’t take too long.”

The winding road that led to Van Dahl Manor was all too familiar to Ed. Although it really ought to be called Cobblepot Manor. Perhaps he should suggest the change to Oswald when he sees him again? _When he sees him again;_ what a thrilling thought that was.

The world inside the Manor was much the same, if a little dusty. Ed found himself turning in circles, examining everything, having a laughing fit at the thought that _he was really here again, in this place_. Oswald’s stuff was scattered around like confetti, and Ed was reminded why he’d left in the first place.

“I have to admit, I’ve missed you,” he told the walls.

“I’ve missed you too.” He turned, staring into Oswald’s eyes. “Ed.”

“I suppose it makes sense; you being here.” Ed nodded. “Anything you’d like to say?”

“Not yet.” Not-Oswald dragged his foot forward. “Would you like some company?”

He nodded. “Please.”

He stepped through to the dining room, spotting the portrait Oswald had commissioned, now with the added question-mark.

“Such a shame.” Oswald tutted.

He slipped through to the alcove by the gramophone. His blanket was still there. He’d spent so much time mourning there; first for Isabella, then Oswald.

“You know you could bring her back too,” Oswald pointed out. “But you haven’t thought of that. Why? Why am I more important?”

“Because you are.” Ed picked the record off the turntable, slipping it into its proper case. “I see that now.”

“Are you taking that with you?”

“I might need it.” He shrugged. 

He carried it upstairs, stopping first in his old room. Some of his suits were still hanging in the closet. 

“There’s not much for me here,” He admitted. “I just wanted to take one last look.”

“If all goes to plan, you’ll be back here soon anyway.”

“True.” He nodded.

“Let’s go see my room now. I want to see the mess you made of it.” Not-Oswald led them out the door and down the hall.

The room still exhaled his name, the curtains billowing with his scent. His cologne still sat on the dresser and Ed secreted it away into his pocket for later.

“Wow, Ed, couldn’t even make the bed.” The sheets were a tumble, caught up in each other from all the time he slept in them and, subsequently, _didn’t_ sleep in them. “Anything else you want from here?”

Ed snatched up his robe, admiring the golden embroidery. He’d been allowed to wear it one time, he recalled, after Ed had saved him and he’d saved Ed right back.

“Nice to know you can remember that.” Oswald rolled his eyes. “Can you go already? Let me be a ghost in peace.”

“Yes, yes, I’m going.” Ed stumbled out and down the stairs before turning back. “Just… don’t forget me, okay?”

“You?” Oswald scoffed. “Never.”

♠ ♠ ♠

“I estimate that the machine will be finished in a week’s time. We must prepare,” Strange said, stirring his chopsticks around in his food.

“I’ll be ready.” Ed stuck a noodle between his lips. It was disgustingly domestic to eat together, but it was rather necessary. Still, Ed always insisted on them eating in different corners of the lab. It did mean raising their voices in order to have a conversation. “Keep telling me what you did to fix Fish.”

“It was an issue of where her powers drew the energy from. You see…”

Strange could talk a lot of drivel, but some of it was interesting. Not a lot though.

Ed’s mind had been wandering off lately, the closer they got to the finish line. Daydreaming over and over what it might be like to see Oswald again – the real, unpredictable Oswald. Not the hollowing version in his head.

Since his time at the Manor, he’d finally chosen what day he’d like to return to. Oswald’s dressing gown had given him the idea. He’d worn it was the night he revealed Butch as the leader of the red hood gang. Oswald had smashed a bottle over the brute’s head and Ed had laid there with Oswald clutching him, thinking only that it was a strange, strange city that the King and Mayor of Gotham could be his knight in shining armour. Oswald had taken him home, made him tea, even hugged him. Never before had Ed felt so warm.

He would like to feel that again.

♠ ♠ ♠

“That’s it! It worked.”

“Five minutes back to this conversation, really?” Ed found himself clapping. “We did it!”

“I did it!” Strange retorted.

“I think you’ll find you couldn’t have done it without me,” he snapped before pressing his knuckles to his lips. “Oh my! We invented a time travelling device and it _works_.”

“It’ll need extra time powering up, but it should be ready by tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Ed asked, suddenly feeling everything deflate within him.

“Yes, tomorrow,” Strange confirmed. “What’s wrong with tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow is the anniversary,” he swallowed, “Of Oswald’s death.”

“Well, I dare say you’ll be free to save him then,” Strange scoffed. “Now the machine will charge. I have other things to deal with.” He walked away, closing the lab door behind him.

“Right.” Ed stared at the machine, the blue lights buzzing bright, saluting him proudly. 

“W̴e̸l̷l̴ ̸d̴o̴n̴e̸,̷ ̸y̸o̴u̵’̷v̴e̶ ̷a̴c̵c̸o̸m̶p̷l̴i̷s̷h̷e̸d̵ ̸s̷o̴m̶e̸t̶h̵i̷n̵g̸.” He could already feel the deadman’s stare before he turned. 

“Hello, Oswald.” They’d moved his chamber to the lab a while ago. It felt easier to work with miscreant like Strange with Oswald there to watch over him.

He walked to the chamber, leaning against the glass. “I don’t believe in God, Oswald.” He huffed a circle of fog over the glass. “I believe in the power of science, math, and energy.” He drew a question mark over the surface, raising a smile for it. “But I also believe in the power of the unexplainable. And the unpredictable.” He laughed, tapping the glass. “And the untamable, old friend.” Oswald stayed floating, but in Ed’s mind he manipulated the corners of his black lips, stretched them into smiles, pulled them down into frowns. He sighed. “I miss you. Still.” He shook his head. “That doesn’t matter. I’ll see you soon.” He pressed his hand through the glass, imagined Oswald a hand and held it tight. “And if you tell me you love me, this time, I promise to say it back.”

_Forever in the universe; if you say you love me, I promise to say it back._

He sat with his back against the chamber, stared out at the labs, felt the floor seep cold into the bones.

“Won’t be long now.”

It was coming up to 3 am. Morning was less than 6 hours away. It wasn’t very likely he’d get any sleep; he was too strung out and restless.

“Do you remember the last time you came to visit me in Arkham?” He asked the empty room. Oswald floated on behind him. “You were so worried about Fish Mooney.” He chuckled. “It drove you to distraction.” Oswald had been so twitchy; so nervous. “But still, you made time to see me. Said it kept you sane.” Ed pressed his lips together, raking a hand through his hair. “You made me sane too, Oswald. I am a little bit mad, but I find that it isn’t so bad when you’re around.” He shrugged. “Maybe because you weren’t constantly talking about how crazy I am. Thanks for that too.”

Outside, the world kept turning, sun rising in the East, setting in the West.

“Funny because Fish never wanted to hurt you. She just wanted Strange to fix her.” He tucked his knees up, rested his forehead on them so he talked to the floor. “And he fixed her. Months and months ago.”

Night sank into his bones and he watched a moth circle the lamp on the far right. How on earth did it get in? “You remember that one riddle I asked you? I can't be bought, but I can be stolen with a glance. I'm worthless to one, but priceless to two.” He spread his fingers laterally. “What am I?” He turned to the glass, pressed his cheek against it. “I was nervous to tell it to you. And excited. See, I thought perhaps you’d take it the wrong way, think I meant something by it. That I cared for you or something.” Ed shrugged, curling his arms around himself. “But part of me wanted you to take it wrong, too. And I was disappointed when you didn’t.” He laughed. “Funny.”

Morning was starting to lace up its shoes, ready for the new day. Ed stayed waiting until the last moment, spinning himself a cocoon of memories to stay occupied. When the digital face of the lab clock clunked over to 6:00 am, he stood on shaky legs and stumbled out of the room and upstairs. The hideout was rather barren but it had enough room for him to keep his stuff somewhere.

He grabbed Oswald’s robe from the closet and pulled it on over his shirt, tying a loose knot at his hips. He snatched a bottle of Oswald’s cologne from the desk before scrounging around for that record. _The_ record.

He carried the cologne and record down to the lab, setting them aside while he dished out the turntable.

“Very good, you’re on task,” Strange noted as he walked in. “I have some final checks to carry out, but we should be up and running soon enough.”

It was about an hour later when Strange turned to him. “You can put your record on now.”

Ed nodded, his fingers shaking as he set the needle down.

_“It’s okay in the day, I’m staying busy.”_

Strange strapped him into the chair, locking his arms and legs down with the leather straps.

“Is this really necessary?” He asked.

“Believe me, Mr. Nygma, it is.” Strange grinned. “Why don’t you begin picturing the time you wish to travel back to and I can worry about everything else.”

“Right.” He exhaled slowly, closing his eyes. The music continued to play.

_“If I was my heart, I’d rather be restless. The second I stop, the sleep catches up and I’m breathless.”_

Inhale, exhale.

Ed pictured the black glossy stage, the crowd of people, the excitement.

_“'Cause this ache in my chest as my day is done now. The dark covers me, and I cannot run now.”_

Butch’s hand clasping his neck, the turmoil, world crumbling.

_“My blood running cold, I stand before him.”_

Then it was gone and Oswald was above him and he could _breathe._

_“It's all I can do to assure him; when he comes to me, I drip for him tonight.”_

Oswald’s reassuring candour as he insisted that they go home, his arm, his scent; surrounding.

_“Drowning in me, we bathe under blue light.”_

Staring at the fire as Oswald hobbled over with a cup of tea. The desperation in his gaze.

_I’m safe here._

“Are you ready?”

_“He's fierce in my dreams, seizing my guts.”_

“I’m ready.” He could hear the machine whirring to life.

_“He floats me with dread.”_

“Continue to concentrate on that moment.”

_“Soaked in soul, he swims in my eyes by the bed.”_

Candlelight and promises. Go back to those promises.

_“Pour myself over him...”_

Suddenly, he felt Strange clutching his arms tight and his eyes shot open. “What are you doing?!”

_“Moon spilling in…”_

“Oh, Nygma, would you have me forget too?”

_“And I wake up…”_

“But it’ll interfere with the machine–”

_“Alone.”_

Ed’s hand dropped.

_**BANG!** _

“Oswald?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that this chapter has... explained things.


	5. Loving Him Instead

For a second, nothing was in focus. It was such a beautiful second, sinking in deep and solid, blocking out the bad. Such a safe second.

Then his eyes focused and the world ended.

“Oswald?” His hand was wrapped around cool metal and he was shivering as he looked down to see a gun.

_A gun._

“Oswald!” And it was the same look from that same day: The pure heartbreak, the loss. “I didn't mean to! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, I–”

“Get away from me.” He watched, his heart tumbling from his mouth as Oswald – the real Oswald (Oh God, this was real) – stumbled backwards and fell.

_**Splash!** _

No.

_No, no, no, no “No! No! No!”_

He ran to the edge, saw Oswald disappearing into the water, _just like last time_ , hand clutching his gut.

Again, it was happening _again_.

“No! No! No!” And suddenly he was shedding the jacket, tearing away his glasses, kicking off his shoes and pants and diving into the river. He tried to kick his legs as he swallowed water. It was freezing, sending his heart freezing. He tried to open his eyes but there was only a blur of darkness.

“Oswald!” He tried to tip forward, dive further, kicking as hard as he could, but there was nothing. Where was he?

More salt and pollution and _black_ filled his lungs as he sputtered, “Oh no, please, please no.”

Then he was kicking to the nearby ladder, slipping off the rungs three times in his haste to get up. He scrambled across blood stained concrete to grab the phone from his pants pocket, dialed the same number that had called him months ago with, _“I need to talk to you about the former Mayor and your friend, Mr. Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot.”_

“Hello, you’ve reached–”

“This is Edward Nygma! I’m calling from the southside dock by shed 693. The Mayor has been shot and dumped in the river and I can’t get him out! I repeat; Mayor Oswald Cobblepot, my _friend–_ ” Suddenly his guts were in his throat and he was vomiting up at the sight of that black and green corpse rotting on a slab.

_I’ve failed again. I’ve failed._

He put the phone to his ear again. “–an you hear me, sir, I need to–”

“I’m here.”

“Sir, I need you to wait there, we have people on the way. Please, can you try to pinpoint where the Mayor is as accurately as you can and stay on the line for me.”

“Yes, yes, I–” He stuck his hand around on the ground until he found his glasses and pushed them onto his nose. He scrambled to the edge, watching the water. “There’s-there’s a lot of blood in the water. That-that should pinpoint him, right?”

“Yes, that’ll help.” _That’ll help_. “Don’t worry, Mr. Nygma. Everything is going to be okay.”

♠ ♠ ♠

 _Breathe,_ one, two, three. _Breathe,_ one, two, three.

“Mayor Cobblepot, can you hear me?”

 _Breathe,_ one, two, three.

“Oswald? Oswald, please!”

 _Breathe,_ one, two, three.

“No response, bpi is too low, we need oxygen now!”

 _Breathe,_ one, two, three.

“Sir? Sir, you need to move for the oxygen mask. Keep pumping his chest, that’s good.”

“H-he’s breathing?”

“Yes, but he's weak, you need to continue. We can take over if you need us–”

“No.” One, two, three. “N-no, I’m fine.”

“Come in the ambulance with us, you can stay with him the entire time.”

“Good.” One, two, three. “Good.”

♠ ♠ ♠

Ed’s arms ached, his lungs were burning. CPR was a rough process and had taken a lot out of him.

The hospital floor was dirty, the stickiness clinging to his foot, dragging him down.

There was a blanket around his shoulders and a stranger by his side. Apparently he was in shock.

The chairs were rather filthy too. For a hospital, it didn’t seem very hygienic.

“When can I see Oswald?”

“He’ll be coming out of surgery any minute now.”

♠ ♠ ♠

“Hello, Mr. Nygma, here is the prognosis: On examination, we identified a 1 cm diameter entry wound at the left lower abdominal wall. The imaging studies showed the bullet in the peritoneal cavity but no injured intraperitoneal and retroperitoneal viscera. We operated, removed the bullet and repaired damages. As of now, Mayor Cobblepot is still yet to wake up. We suspect the combination of trauma and lack of oxygen has resulted in a coma. More data is still being obtained, but this is what we know now.”

Ed swallowed black. “When will he wake up?”

“I’m afraid we cannot give you an estimate at this time, but we are working on it.”

“When can I see him?”

“Follow me.”

♠ ♠ ♠

Oswald Cobblepot was not dripping colour or bathed in black, but his eyes were closed and there was a mask over his mouth.

Ed didn’t know what to do so he let himself cry, clutching Oswald’s pliant hand as he dripped salt water over him, waiting for him to complain and kick him out already, go on.

“Are you the Mayor’s boyfriend?” A nurse asked. “I’ve seen you next to him in the papers.”

“None–” he wiped his nose, “None of your business.”

“It’s good that you’re holding his hand.” She smiled. “He’d like it. They can still feel and hear things sometimes. It’s comforting to know that someone who loves him is around.”

“I’m not sure if he’d really want me here,” he found himself saying. 

“Did you two have a fight, love?”

“Yes,” he huffed a laugh, “A really big fight. And I’m afraid that when he wakes up, he’ll never want to see me again.”

“I’m sure that won’t happen.”

“No, it probably will.” He rested his chin in his hand, blinking more tears down his cheeks. “You should’ve seen the way he looked at me when I–” he swallowed, “When I saw him last.”

“If he’s a good man, he’ll forgive you. Water under the bridge. That’s the thing about tragedies,” She sighed, “Brings people together.”

♠ ♠ ♠

_Ring! Ring!_

Ed jolted in his chair. He was awake, yes, awake. His hand went to his pocket, finding his phone which he hastily opened. “Hello?”

“Eddie, dear, how _are_ you?”

“Who is this?” He frowned, reaching over to take Oswald’s hand again.

“Barbara,” the voice snapped–oh yes, that _was_ Barbara.

“Barbara, why are you calling me?” He hadn’t talked to her in _months,_ ever since he betrayed her to the police.

“Well, I’m calling to tell you that while Jerome’s madness _was_ the number one headline this week, it has been replaced by the news that your dear little bird has been shot and is in hospital.” Oh dear. “Now why the hell is that?”

“I can explain!” He began, glancing down at Oswald. “I changed my–”

“You called the coastguard! The _coastguard._ Seriously, Ed?”

“Look, Barbara, I changed my mind. I’m… I’m not killing him yet.” He grit his teeth as he thought off the cuff, squeezing Oswald’s hand in apology. “I have a plan to hurt him even _more_ , but I need you to stay away. He–he needs to think that I changed my mind and I don’t hate him. So you can’t come here and hurt him! It’d ruin the entire thing.”

“Seriously? I waited for weeks for you to finally be ready to kill him, and now I have to wait even longer?”

Ed frowned. “What do you care? The underworld is yours now. Do with it what you wish.”

“Yes, but with Penguin alive–”

“Are you telling me that Barbara Kean cannot handle the few jumped up idiots who would question your authority?” Wow, lying to Barbara really was like riding a bike. “I believe in you, Barbara. Why can’t you believe in yourself?”

“Fine. I’ll give you two weeks.”

“Right. See you, Barbara.”

“See ya.”

“And if I see any of your people skulking around the hospital, I’ll–”

“Yeah, yeah, I get the picture. Just go torture Penguin will you.” She hung up and Ed snapped his phone shut.

Two weeks to come up with a way to keep the terrible trio away from Oswald. How on Earth could he manage it?

♠ ♠ ♠

“Is this Victor Zsasz?”

“Nygma!” Ed hissed pulling the phone away from his ear. “How have you been? You should’ve rung my personal phone, not my work one! You must’ve been waiting on the line for ages!”

“Yes, but the assassin-themed music was nice.”

“Oh, you liked that? That was my idea!” Zsasz laughed. “So, what do you need?”

Ed pressed his lips together. “A favour.”

♠ ♠ ♠

“You can’t be sleeping here again, Mr. Nygma. You need to go home sometime. You’re starting to smell,” Nurse Winston tutted. “Me and the other orderlies are worried about you.”

“Please don’t send me home. I can’t sleep there.” He was clutching Oswald’s hand as always. Sometimes he thought about climbing on the bed and sleeping beside him but then he pictured Oswald face waking up to the man who wanted to murder him and decided the chair was best.

“Just one night, Mr. Nygma. Quickly now, or I’ll send security.”

He sighed, gathering his things; Jacket, blankets, books, keys and phone. “If anything changes, ring my phone.”

“I promise.”

“Thank you.”

“Need someone to drive you home?”

He sighed, shaking his head. “No, I have a car.”

“See you then.”

“Yeah, see you.”

♠ ♠ ♠

Everytime Ed came back here it was like that day all that time ago, coming home after dumping Oswald in the river only to find a house that hated him for it. How Oswald had been everywhere.

God, Oswald was still everywhere.

And why was there still blood on his hands after he went to all that effort to wipe it off? After _everything._

This was a punishment. His own personal hole in purgatory, no matter what he tried he would forever relive shooting his best friend, the person he _loved_ , in the chest. Or the stomach, this time, thank God.

Ed walked up the stairs. Everything was so _fuzzy_ , thoughts buzzing, nothing tangible. He felt like he was watching himself from the other side of the room, laughing, _“You idiot, you fool, you failure!”_

All he’d really wanted was to see Oswald smile again. Was that too much to ask?

 _“Get away from me,”_ he’d said.

And the thing none of the nurses would admit to him was that there was a possibility Oswald wouldn’t wake up. It would be nine days after tomorrow. _Nine_. Ed wasn’t an idiot, he knew the chances were low. If he wanted to see Oswald’s sea glass eyes again, he’d have to pry his eyelids open with his fingers.

♠ ♠ ♠

“Mr. Nygma, there’s a lady here who would like to talk to you.”

Ed sighed. “Blonde or brunette?”

“Brunette.”

“I’ll be right there.” He sighed, pressing a kiss to Oswald’s knuckles before gently placing his hand back on the bed. He’d begun doing that lately; the kissing. He needed to prove that something had changed, that there was a purpose to Oswald being alive but unaware of his presence.

He stood, walking to the doorway. “Tabitha! How may I–oh.”

“Vicky Vale from Gotham Gazette, I’d like to ask you a few questions.” She smiled, pushing a tape recorder under his chin.

“Yes, I know who you are.” Last time he’d seen her he’d been lying through his teeth about the dear missing mayor. “I’m afraid all I can say is that Mayor Cobblepot is unwell and will be returning to office as soon as he recovers.”

“If he recovers,” Miss Vale corrected.

“ _When_ he recovers.”

♠ ♠ ♠

“ _Eddie_ , it’s been two weeks!” Barbara sang.

“He’s dead–” _dead,_ “–to the world Barbara, how can I exact revenge on him like this?” More time, please, more time, more time. “He’s not hurting anyone in this state. Go on, have fun with your new friends.”

“I don’t like loose ends, Eddie.”

“I know.”

“But I’ll make an exception for you.”

“Thank you.”

♠ ♠ ♠

It was just a twitch. His fingers flicking. Ed thought he’d hallucinated it. Then it happened again. And again.

This was it.

He was coming back.

♠ ♠ ♠

“He can hear you,” Nurse Crawford said. “We just don’t know whether he’s processing or retaining that information.”

Ed nodded, not looking away from Oswald’s sleeping features.

“He knows you saved him.”

“No, he doesn’t,” he snapped. “He knows I failed to keep him from harm.”

“He’s alive, isn’t he?”

Oswald’s hand twitched in his, tightening and releasing.

“Yeah.” He pressed his lips together, trying to contain the upset in his eyes. “He’s alive.”

♠ ♠ ♠

_He’s alive._

♠ ♠ ♠

Ed watched his faded memory of a man full of life and movement slowly come back to him. Oswald was moving properly now, using facial expressions in his sleep. No one was really sure how aware he was.

Until Ed spoke to him and the heart rate monitor changed its pace.

“Oswald, can you hear me?”

Flicker, flicker, the green dot bouncing higher.

“I-it’s Ed.” Heartbeat in his throat. “Can you hear me?”

_Beep beep beep beep._

“If you can hear me, squeeze my hand.”

_Squeeze._

“Is it okay that I’m here?”

_Squeeze._

“I-I hope that means yes.”

♠ ♠ ♠

“But isn’t that manageable? Like a concussion?” Ed felt out of his depth. He _never_ felt out of his depth.

“The lack of dilation and movement could indicate some real trouble for him, Mr. Nygma.” Doctor Michaels had his hands folded in front of him, a grave expression on his face like he was delivering bad news, terrible news.

“Trouble with his…”

“Sight, yes.”

Ed shook his head. “But, he–” God, this wasn’t _fair_. “I have to go see him.”

“Please do.” He walked away, down the hall to the private ward. At least he’d managed to persuade the hospital to give Oswald the nicest room, him being the Mayor after all.

“I can’t _see_ dammit!” Came a shout down the hall.

Ed hurried his feet, running into Oswald’s room.

“Oh, M-Mister Nygma.” Nurse Winston looked very uncomfortable. “I don’t think now is a very good time…”

The look on his face was so hurt, so _broken_ , and Ed felt the urge to ask; _What happened to you, who did this?_ But the answer was _he_ happened, _he_ did this. “Oswald?” 

He said nothing, his eyes making strange movements as they struggled to focus. _I did this to you._ Ed pressed his knuckles to his lips and tried to breathe.

“Um, sir,” Nurse Winston murmured, barely above a whisper. “How about I fetch Doctor Michaels? He might be able to… To help with your situation.” She quickly left the room and suddenly Ed was alone with the life he’d ruined.

Oswald’s hand laid pale and lifeless atop the covers. He hadn’t held it in a while. “Oswald? Can I…?” He brushed his finger over the skin, barely touching. Slowly, Oswald nodded. He took it gently, nervous now. It was so different with Oswald awake and aware–alive. He was alive.

_He’s alive._

But barely. Gosh, “I’m s-sorry.”

“Why? It’s not your fault,” Oswald croaked. His throat must’ve hurt something terrible. _That’s my fault too, it’s all my fault, my fault, my fault._

“It is.”

“No, it isn’t,” Oswald shook his head before huffing a laugh. “I mean, it’s not like you shot me, right?”

For a moment, he didn’t process it. Maybe Oswald was making a sick joke. Until it suddenly struck him.

Did… Did Oswald not remember?

And if he didn’t remember, what… what would that mean?

“Ed?” He’d missed him, that lively face, that voice, his hand. He couldn’t give it up. Not after everything, the hallucinations and ghosts, he needed to keep him; the real him.

“Of course I didn’t!” The lie came spinning, shooting like a bullet he’d like to take back. “I would never–I would still do anything for you.”

“Glad to hear it.” And, at last, Oswald smiled. God, _finally_. And it was everything, just as beautiful. 

And yes, _yes_ , that made it worth it. All of this; it was worth it.

♠ ♠ ♠

Irony was a five-letter word, and Oswald couldn’t remember anything since the day Ed had chosen. _That_ day.

It seemed he’d gotten his wish after all.

♠ ♠ ♠

“Gonna kill him yet?”

“Barbara, I–”

“You’ve lost your balls, I see, I’ll send Tabby down to the hospital tonight.”

“If any of your people step one foot inside the hospital, I will blow your whole operation to _pieces_. You will be held responsible for _all_ of the havoc you’ve caused and more.”

“Just keep him out our way, Ed. And stop talking to me like you’re not the little bitch I know you are.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

♠ ♠ ♠

He finally got the okay to take him home. Oswald was aggressive and grouchy and he wouldn’t have it any other way because this Oswald was _real_ and he’d like to keep it that way.

But then the night was over, and Oswald wouldn’t let him sleep in the same bed as him, of course not! So it was down the too-long hallway to his own room. He turned on the light and changed into his pyjamas as he stared at the mirror. He waited for movement, for _something_ , but it was just his reflection.

He sighed, burying his face in his hands. He wasn’t doing enough, wasn’t helping enough. How was he supposed to make it up to Oswald? He was never going to forgive him–nor should he after what he’d done. Ed didn’t forgive himself. Why would anyone else?

God, all he’d done to put it right and he’d just done a wrong again.

“ **G̴̺͂o̶̙̓ô̶̱͎̕d̷̜̗̓͌ ̷̧͈͑t̸̞̰̾͑o̸͓̍ ̵̟͚̾s̷͉̅͠e̴̤͓͋ẻ̶̠̂ ̷͈͎̒y̸͍̻͑o̴͚͋͐ͅu̸͙͕̾̉ ̷͚͗h̶̹̑ą̶̰̂͋v̷͎̠e̸͇̿͒n̷̲̤̓'̴̥̘͊t̵̳͇̿ ̵͈́f̵͎̫͆ọ̷̩͋ř̴̥͒g̶̖͕ô̵͍t̶͖̚t̴̻͘͝e̷͖̚͝n̸̖̙̓͐ ̸̘̀͌m̴̛͉͓̅e̷̩͔͂**.”

He looked up and saw those deep pits staring back at him. 

“ **Î̵̱'̷̜̍͑m̸̰̐͘ ̶̮̣̑͆n̸͉̻̂̀ǫ̴͍̿t̵̬̟̅̏ ̶͉̌g̵̛͓̰̐o̸̙̮͐̋i̴̤͐ñ̴̡ģ̴̝̋ ̷̟̀a̵̯̅n̵̹̕y̸̧͘w̶̨̠̉͊h̵̜̑̓e̶̙͕͒r̷̢̈́̒e̴̥̗͋͛**.”

_Oh dear._

♠ ♠ ♠

He didn’t sleep. How could he?

He spent the night wandering up and down the hall, waiting for something to happen. He heard it the moment Oswald’s sheets started rustling with movement in the early morning, and quickly took advantage, knocking on the door.

“Come in.”

“It’s just me,” he said, walking through. Oswald was nestled there in bed. Ed blushed with the knowledge that he’d shared that space with him, had sunk into the mattress, smelled the sheets.

“Ed!” He seemed happy to see him, and it was exhilarating and gut-wrenching, knowing the lie that hung between them. “Would… Would you mind terribly if you helped me out with a little… _problem_ I’m having?”

“Of course, Oswald,” Ed assured him, hesitating before sitting beside him. “What do you need?” _Anything, I’d do anything._

“Uhh...” Oswald seemed unsure of himself, which was odd. Was this the right Oswald? Had they swapped? Perhaps he would wake soon and discover that he’d never seen Strange in the first place. Was this Hell, or Purgatory? “I-I think I remembered something.” Oh. That made more sense. “It was–you had just told me that y-you wanted to… to be ‘more than friends’.”

“Y-yes.” He did want that, but he couldn’t remember saying so. Perhaps Oswald was thinking of something he’d heard while he was asleep?

“And I told you that I… I love you back.” Oswald shrugged. “That’s all I can remember, me saying ‘one cannot deny love’, and then it goes dark again.” Oh. Oh dear.

Ed felt guilt rush over him, dosing him in river water, the _horrible_ trick he’d played, how he’d run away, ruined Oswald’s life, again and again, why’d he have to do that? Why couldn’t he just take it back? 

“S-so… Was that real?” He looked at Oswald, the _want_ on his lips. “Do you… Do you love me?”

_“And if you tell me you love me, this time, I promise to say it back.”_

_Forever in the universe; if you say you love me, I promise to say it back._

“Y-yes.” 

_“Never lie to me again, Eddie,”_ Father had growled, _“Or I swear, it won’t be the belt next time, it’ll be the shotgun.”_

“Yes, that…” Ed swallowed, “That was real. And I do.” _I promise to say it back._ “I do love you.”

He didn’t know if it was the gap of time since he’d seen him or the fading memory but Oswald had never looked so happy. “Oh, thank God.” He lurched forward and Ed instinctively caught him in his arms. “So, we were together this whole time? Why didn’t you say something?”

“Oh.” _Don’t lie, don’t lie._ But he was so soft, and real, and in his arms, and he _wanted_ this. “W-well, I guess that… that when I found out you’d forgotten, I figured… I figured you’d forgotten all of that, t-too.”

Oh dear, what was happening, oh dear, he needed to stop, he couldn’t do this, oh dear.

“It’s funny, but, I actually feel even more in love with you than I did before.” It gave Ed pause. Oswald really loved him. He loved him. “Maybe… maybe the feelings stayed, even if the memories didn’t.”

“That could be it,” Ed murmured softly, pressing his cheek against Oswald’s hair.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” Oswald admonished, pulling away from him, _no._

“I’m sorry.” And it wouldn’t make up for what he’d done or what he was doing right now but he had to try.

“Well, how about you make up for it?”

 _Yes, please,_ “How?”

“Kiss me.” 

_So. We’re really going for this? There’s no turning back now. This is our choice?_

Ed stared at Oswald’s lips as he continued. “I know you surely have already, but I can’t remember. I just want to know what it felt like, my first kiss with you.”

“Oh. O-okay.” He cupped Oswald’s cheek. _Are you sure? You’re really doing this?_ Ed leant in slowly, and then their lips were touching. _I’m really doing this._

_**IDIOT!** _

He jumped back, heart racing.

“Why did you stop?” Oswald asked, licking his lips. “I’m sorry if it was different, it’s just–”

“No! No, I promise you were perfect!” Ed cried, words jumbling over each other. “I just wasn’t sure if–if you were okay with this. I-I didn’t want you to be overwhelmed.” His pulse pounded in his throat.

“Okay,” Oswald said slowly. “You could have asked, though.”

“O-of course,” Ed looked around, “d-does that mean you want me to…”

“Please,” Oswald nodded, hands reaching out again. And, oh dear, he wanted to.

He leant in, pressing their lips together. He wanted to chain them together, keep Oswald with him, never lose him again. He couldn’t live losing Oswald again.

“Is this what it felt like? The first time?” Oswald whispered, pulling back a fraction.

“Yes,” Ed gasped against his lips. _This is the first time,_ “You–you were beautiful.”

“God, I don't deserve you,” Oswald told him in one, long heated breath, pressing his forehead to Ed's. 

_Oh, the lies we tell each other._

Ed held his breath and smiled. This would never last.

_He’s fierce in my dreams, seizing my guts,_

_He f̸̬̑ ̴͇̳̳̙̔̽͗̎l̶̼̮̪̔ ̷̛̬͖̟̩̓̂̈́̏͠ǫ̴̡̘̟̦̦̍̌̆ ̵̫̟̗̖͓̤̑ạ̸̢̡͓͓̎̐̈́͗̒ͅ ̸̢̱͕̝͙̾ͅt̸̡̢̟̻̭͆̎͛̓̂̆ ̶̛͈͍͈̤͙̕s̷̫̯̟̃̈́ me with dread._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it.... I think? Idk, I feel like writing more of Seizing My Guts from Ed's POV, but Idk if it'll happen. So it's the end for now! Thank you everyone who's read this far! I love this AU I've created so much. Expect the next chapter of Seizing My Guts to arrive...... soon.


End file.
